Little Miss Disappear
by SlipperbackTub
Summary: Was he responsible for my mother's death? Not directly, no. But he was responsibility for my father's corruption, for my family's dissolved connections. He was responsible for my family breaking apart. There was one thing keeping my head above the ocean of grief - the thought of revenge. Dismantling him would be oh-so-satisfying. Dark!Violet, SYNLET. Rating will go up.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

Little Miss Disappear. The name has never left me.

There are two people inside me, two very different personalities which war with each other every time I open my mouth. They've never combined – I'm either Invisigirl, or Violet Parr. Violet is a socially awkward, bookish girl who hides behind a sheaf of inky black hair and prefers to write poetry, falling hopelessly in love with boys who will never notice her. Invisigirl is a ruthless defender of Retroville, a superhero who can sling clichés from between gritted teeth at the drop of a hat. She's not afraid of anything – she's almost cocky in her guardianship of her hometown. As of late, Violet has been winning more battles at home; I learned a long time ago that hiding and listening give better results than bulling my way forward and demanding them. But sometimes situations call for demanding, sometimes people won't give until you pull back hard until they crack. So whenever my mask is shielding my secret identity, Invisigirl comes out and I'm back in the streets, fighting crime and throwing force shields, letting my pent-up energy explode out of me until I feel as though every inch of skin is soaked in static.

Invisigirl is dangerous.

But she can crack too – whenever Invisigirl fails, I'm back to plain old me. Little Miss Disappear, Violet Parr, and the girl who flees from pain. I pushed myself, forced my superhero out into the open when I asked out Tony Rydinger, the boy I had longed after for most of my high school life. But the mask was off when I attended the date, and he must have discovered how shy I was, how much work would have to go into a relationship with me. Because although he promised to call, and I kept my phone in my hand for the next month or more, I never received so much as a text from the most popular jock in school. And I wasn't stupid enough to call him and risk damaging my pride any more than it already was.

So I was alone once more, alone with my superhero identity and my family. But even the strongest of ties dissolve.

I ran from Tony, from romance in high school. I ran towards my superhero lifestyle – a dead end job I knew I was too good for, getting new gear for Invisigirl almost every week. Nobody would place awkward Violet Parr, waitress at the local greasy spoon, with Invisigirl, the superhero bubbling with confidence and humming with force shields. I ran from fame and towards anonymity; Invisigirl never stayed behind for press conferences or marched in parades.

I think you can guess what I did at my mother's funeral.

Dash and my father were there, of course. Dash, with his slender frame and thick blonde hair in waves around his impishly handsome face, sitting next to my hulking mountain of a father. Both of them had been crying together, their grief raw and exposed on their faces. A cover story had to be created for the loss of Elastigirl, so rumors were spread that she had gotten married and quietly retired into her alter ego. I was the person who dealt with the press, while the men of my family dealt with their grief. My own emotions were shunted aside like cold, naked, unwanted creatures.

I ran from the funeral. Dash remained, as painful as it was for him, but he had always been braver than I.

There have been moments when I considered suicide, yes. But death never appealed to me. The idea of endless sleep…that was what kept me flirting with the drop. Endless sleep, forever shorn off of both Violet and Invisigirl. They both disgusted me. But pain kept me alive, and the fear of it kept me away from suicide. I'd like to think that some inner well of bravery flickered to life whenever my moods became dark, but I know that isn't true. The fear of afterlife, of being held accountable for my actions, was what really kept me tethered to humanity.

But now there's an entirely different reason for living.

_Revenge_.

His death bonded my family. His survival tore my father apart. For months, my father hunted the man down, only to find he had been acquitted from his crimes due to a legal loophole and too much red tape for anyone to be bothered with. If there was anything Syndrome was good at, it was politics and inventing. His inventions fueled our military as penance for his crimes, and my father became a beast unknown to our family. Only my mother could calm him down, only my mother could remind him of our strong family ties. But when that building collapsed with my mother still in it, my father flew apart. He shattered into a thousand pieces, and only Dash was there to pick them up again. I couldn't deal with my own grief, never mind my father's crumbling morals, morals which were beginning to corrupt the most sterling of superheroes.

Syndrome was responsible for my father's sudden corruptibility, and indirectly responsible for my mother's death. It was his hardware which enabled Bomb Voyage to blow up the building full of innocent people and my mother, the sensible Helen Parr. Rumors snuck around, as always, and through some delicate probing I discovered the relationship between Syndrome and Bomb Voyage had never been better. Had he been under Syndrome's orders to blow up the Municipal building? Probably not. Had Syndrome done anything to stop Bomb? No, I don't believe so.

That made him guilty in my book.

Revenge was the best reason I could think of for staying alive. Funny how saving the lives of innocent people never occurred to me; there were other, better, superheroes to take my place. I was expendable.

But I was also incredible.

And Syndrome would finally be held responsible for his crimes.

* * *

**A/N: **_I've seen a lot of Syndrome-captures-Violet-to-get-revenge fanfiction, but not a whole lot of the other way around. Which spawned this little fic. So a review or two to keep me on track would be LOVELY. :)_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

PineCorp was a generic looking building. Square, regular shapes of three story buildings dotted the flat horizon, and there was a large black parking lot in front. Several decorative shrubs, neatly trimmed of course, were arranged in front of the largest building. I knew this couldn't be the whole operation – there were warehouses, factories, shipping garages where the equipment was stored. This was the busywork center; here, all the paperwork filtered from office to office until it was approved by some vague, shadowy Boss. I had seen my father's work setting enough to know how mind-crushingly dull it was. This was the core of PineCorp, where the ideas were drawn onto graphing paper and scattered around large tables, showing off the sleek, economical designs. In this building somewhere, was Buddy Pine. Syndrome.

Getting him out was too easy.

It would be blasphemous to have Invisigirl destroy a public building for no known reason – after all, superheroes were supposed to defend, not provoke. So in lieu of my usual black and purple spandex, I wore one of my first supersuit castoffs, a design E had discarded as being 'too gaudy'. I had liked it from the start, although I saw where she was coming from. The suit was brilliant blue, with ice white zigzags cutting down the sides. The mask, however, was white and obscured more of my face than usual. I couldn't have anyone putting Invisigirl together with this masked offender, this sudden villain springing forth. If I had my way, I would be gone before anyone could call the authorities.

A decent sized energy ball would do the trick. I had learned last year that my shields worked just as well around other objects, and that I could throw them with fairly good accuracy. So long as I kept the shields fully in place, the effect was like a cannonball and quite spectacular. I felt the familiar zing of static crackle down my spine, trickle across my shoulder, and I pulled the power into my fist to form a soccer ball sized sphere of energy.

I hurled it hard against the smooth gray brick of the main building.

An explosive _fwoom!_ shattered three lower story windows, and I dimly heard screams. A faint alarm blared, as I'm sure an evacuation plan began to commence. I was sickened with myself – destroying public property in a wanton act of malice, simply to get a man to come outside? But deep within my core, a flicker of black iron was cruelly pleased, and a bizarre euphoria began to pound against my temples. I threw another ball, this time through a window, and watched as a steady stream of people began filtering out of the building. Before anyone could get a good look, I vanished into the soft summer breeze, melting into the fabric of the air. Invisibility was not a shield today, it was a tool. It wasn't a sign of cowardice.

I saw him.

God help me, I saw him.

Not quite tall, of average height, but with a stocky build and a deep barrel chest. He still wore his hair in that ridiculous fashion, teased orange spikes, although today his auburn hair looked tousled and unstylishly mussed. I wasn't close enough to see his expression or his features, but I could imagine those big round blue eyes, sweetly innocent, while an inner streak of sadism danced behind the cruel mask. He was good at pretending.

That much, at least, we had in common.

I coasted over to him on a strip of static, and sent a pinprick of energy his way. The effect was enough to raise the hair on his arms, and he looked around for the source of the shock. His flinch empowered me, filled me like the strongest drug, and I glared at his face to catch the look of fear. I wanted to taste his fear, to see the momentary startle turn into genuine fright, before I killed him. Before I shut those big baby blues forever, so they would stop tormenting me in my dreams and nightmares.

But instead of looking frightened, he looked bored. And very tired; the lines seemed to be deeper around his mouth and eyes, and he was wearing an expensive blue pinstriped shirt that inadvertently showed off the beginning of a white scar on his collarbones. I felt anger hit me hard – once, twice, three times, my anger swelled with my heartbeat.

I let my invisibility shield flicker out, and I sent a circle of energy towards the neat line. They went flying like bowling pins, Syndrome included, and this time I _did_ see the fear on his face. _Yesss._ So sweet.

"Buddy Pine!" I rapped out, my voice hard and unyielding. "Stand up! Now!" All eyes turned to him, and my voice gentled momentarily, becoming sleeker and dropping to a dangerous purr. "I'd advise you all to stay out of this, ladies and gentlemen," I told the crowd which had gathered. "Mr. Pine and I have some business to discuss."

They backed away, of course, already dialing the numbers of the local authorities. I didn't care.

He stood up with only a mild shiver, shaking off the static I had embedded into his skin. Syndrome looked at me, those round eyes still indifferent, narrowed in suspicion. After a moment of studying my face, he relaxed. I felt a flicker of unease course through my belly.

"You supers," He said disgustedly. "Such showoffs. You could have called me up like a decent human being, you know, and we could have discussed this like civil _adults_." He stressed the last word, making it perfectly clear that he thought I wasn't one.

He knew who I was.

Good.

"I don't give decency to animals like you," I snapped. "Do you have anything to say to me?" _Any last words?_

"Yes, actually, I do," He said, and brushed imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. Syndrome looked me straight in the eye, and said softly, "I'm sorry. Your mother's death wasn't my fault, and I'm sorry you blame me for it. I'm sorry I ruined your family. It's my fault, and you have every right to kill me right now."

The words were convincing, perfectly combed with sincerity, but those eyes never wavered from mine.

They taunted me. Mocked me. _Do it,_ those eyes sneered. _Doya have the guts? Huh? Well? Do yah?_

"Yes," I hissed, catlike, and I unclasped the gun from my belt. It wasn't a regular gun, this was one of Yusef's designs; he described it like an electric cattle prod inbred with a taser. The effect was supposed to be excruciating – and also lethal. "Yes, I do."

He spread his arms. "Go ahead then."

We stared at each other. Superhero to supervillain. Villain to villain. Did he know how many masks I had to peel off at the end of the day to see if Violet Parr was still buried beneath them? Did he know how many scars had burrowed their way into my heart and soul and skin? _Did he know_?

No. No, he didn't.

Those blue eyes were tormenting me with their jauntiness. He dared to smile, lips flicking sideways in a slight grin. "You know," He said quietly, almost conversationally, "Your father wouldn't want you to kill me."

_My father!_

I sent a blast of my energy before I was even conscious of doing it; the gun clattered to the pavement, forgotten, as I hurled another static ball at his grinning, foxish features. The force knocked him back, jarred the wind out of him, and I was on top of him like a panther. My teeth were clenched as I seized a handful of his shirt, ripping it as I dragged him forcibly into the sitting position.

"Don't you dare," I seethed at him, "don't you dare mention my father. Ever!" I let him drop, and he rolled on his side, still gasping for breath. I curled my lip contemptuously. "You're right. He wouldn't want me to kill you." The blare of approaching sirens intruded on my ears, and Syndrome met my gaze. There was crimson on his mouth, blood trickling down his chin, and his eyes were hazy.

"He would want me to destroy you."

I left him there, on the ground, surrounded by his anxious coworkers and employees. Beneath my mask, my cheeks were wet and my eyes were puffy; my hands shook erratically.

Then I did what I did best.

I disappeared.

* * *

I tied the apron around my narrow waist a little tighter, cinching the black fabric around my straight hips. In front of me, the dim babble of patrons lulled my senses and the familiar white noise washed over me. Behind me was the kitchen, and I heard the dishes clattering, the cooks swearing, the waitresses shouting, and the oil frying. It was familiar; after three years of working at The Egg and I, there wasn't much I didn't know already. I had been working here since I was sixteen, ever since I became a super as a part time job. My boss, Tom, had an inkling that I was unusual, since I often had to leave at awkward hours due to an alarming piece on the news. The other waitresses ignored me, which was fine by me. The past month or more, however, the most awkward condolences were filling my head, since the rest of the crew didn't know how to act around a girl who had lost her mother recently.

I hated it. I kept to myself more than ever, and when Tom sent me over to the corner to wash dishes, I didn't protest at all. It would give me time to think. The Egg and I had a natural rhythm, like most restaurants; once I tapped into the deeply set rhythm, I could lose myself in the stacking and programming, filling the dishwasher up and emptying it endlessly.

Dash had sent me an email yesterday, and with every word it brought back bitter memories of the family I had willingly chosen to leave behind. Dad was doing great, my younger brother reported dutifully. Apparently, my father was enrolled in some sort of grief counseling, and I felt a little seed of bitterness worm its way into my heart. Grief counseling would help him for a bit, or so I hoped, but there was no way I could do something like that. Spilling my guts to people wasn't something I liked to indulge in, but I have no doubt it would help. Venting wasn't something I did.

Jack-Jack didn't say hello as usual. Of all the boys who had left, he was the one who hurt the most. I knew Dash could comfort Dad, and Dad could comfort Dash, but poor Jack-Jack was a child and still learning how to cope with anything, never mind the monstrous grief which was crushing us all. I always wrote the boys back, always said I was doing fine – that Retroville was safe in my capable hands, that I was thinking of settling down and finding a roommate to help with the rent, lies, lies, lies. I was too young for a husband and felt too old and tired for a boyfriend; besides, having never been in a proper relationship before, I wouldn't know how it worked. My energies needed to be put elsewhere, not into maintaining a relationship as though it were an old car.

I washed dishes all evening, until the last people had left and the rest of the gang was closing up shop. My hands were white and wrinkled from the hot soapy water, and I tingled all over from yesterday's fight with Syndrome. That bizarre euphoria was still thrumming in me, but the nausea was worse. My revenge was both sweet and harsh, taking its toll on my morals.

I meant it when I said I would destroy him. I would, from the ground up. I would take out every single thing he cared for, I would grind it to powder and fling it in his face, and then I would rub salt in the wound.

And then I would kill him.

I couldn't think of anyone Syndrome would care for, not really; his life was his work. I had other plans for his business and his side schemes, that would come in time. As a superhero, I had military access, and I knew that he had a few skeletons in his closet. Legal loopholes be damned, if I found any whiffs of villainy on him, I could extract my own superhero justice.

There was one person I remember him caring for. A certain coffee-skinned, silver-haired woman who had fallen in love with my father, at least a little bit.

_Mirage_.

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**A/N:** _Hi everyone! Thanks for the reviews, you guys, could you keep 'em coming? :3 Is Violet too vastly OOC in this? I'm getting a little nervous..._


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

The empty road beckoned.

Tom accepted my reasoning for taking a vacation, perhaps seeing the dark half-moons imprinted beneath my eyes. "I need some space to think," I told him, mumbling a little and not meeting his eyes. "Just some time off. Two days at the most." He's a kind man, with creases around his mouth and its people like him I feel responsible for. People like him make up most of Retroville – hardworking, dependable people who simply want to live their lives and provide for their families. He has two children and a wife, and I remember seeing all four of them on the sidewalk when I was fighting against the Underminer two months ago. They looked worried, but not frightened; they had faith in their superheroes, especially me. Faith like that frightened me.

So I chased down the double yellow line which led away from Retroville and farther south in California, where Mirage lived. Mirage Lochimoto was her name, and it was mostly thanks to E's contacts that I could find her at all. It had taken Pentagon security clearance to discover her at all. Mirage was a CIA agent gone rogue, and there were blacked out lines of text which omitted the reason; my suspicion was a forbidden love interest. I had tacked her file onto the walls of my apartment and stared at them, pacing relentlessly, trying to puzzle the woman out.

She virtually disappeared after Syndrome was acquitted, and the last time anyone had seen her was outside of the courthouse watching Syndrome walk out as a free man. There was a photograph of her in my glove compartment, the last sighting of her, waiting in her idling car and watching Syndrome with an inscrutable expression on her face, peering towards the courthouse from behind tiny sunglasses. She was attracted to power, I knew that much, and I believe her betrayal of Syndrome was linked to his loss of power. She wanted to be on the winning side – I couldn't blame her for that. I couldn't blame her for much, as I didn't know very much about her.

I didn't hate her.

It was difficult to hate her, difficult because she seemed to be a good woman. Her missions were locked, and there were at least six pages of inked out mission synopses, so I didn't know exactly where her morals lay. But I couldn't hate her, as hard as I tried. Did she matter to Syndrome? I think so. But I don't think Syndrome mattered to her any longer, which was what made it difficult to despise the mysterious woman. Some part of me was terrified of confronting her – killing her would harm Syndrome, but taking an innocent's life would destroy any semblance of superhero foundation I had. Superheroes had retired over less. I would be living a lie for the rest of my life, always haunted by the one time I had shirked by mantel and been purely driven by revenge.

And then I think of those mocking blue eyes and I find the gas pedal jammed to the floor.

It's a good thing the straight line to southern California is almost empty at this time of night, because whenever my mind touched upon my family or Syndrome, I would slam the accelerator and glare furiously out the glass windshield, wishing Syndrome were in my path so I could run over him. But then I would calm down, bit by bit, and my body would relax after a while. The radio would faintly intrude upon my ears and then my mind would rove again, turning over anything that scattered through my thoughts.

I didn't want to kill her.

I didn't know what I was going to do when I found her.

Her official job was a freelance security consultant, although there were shadier businesses which had been indirectly linked to Mirage. I had discovered she was living under the alias Samantha Kolt, and was residing in a very expensive penthouse paid for by an unknown man who had government ties. Whatever crimes Mirage was guilty of, she had been written a free pardon and given a new life; obviously, they did a far better job of hiding a woman who technically didn't exist than the brash Buddy Pine. I made a mental note to thank E again, seeing as the fiery friend of our family had been highly suspicious of my desire to find Mirage. Of course, I hadn't been the sanest of people these days, and E had been extremely upset by the death of my mother. But she had done it, she had called in a few favors and given me the names and addresses I wanted so I could find the woman who had once been in a relationship with the man I hated.

I stopped to fill up my tank and opened my door so I could pump the gas. It was sticky and humid outside, a side effect of California's spectacularly hot summers. There was a mirror above the gas station, and I mistakenly glanced upwards, catching a glimpse of myself in the scummy glass. I winced and looked away – I had dark bruise colored circles beneath my eyes, and my pale skin was even lighter. My whole body looked unimaginably frail, my sharp bones exposed by the short sleeved blue tee shirt I wore, and I knew my appearance was the result of eating little and sleeping less.

My mother wouldn't have approved of the way I looked. I hadn't cried since she died.

I thought of the funeral, with my mother dressed in her favorite lilac pantsuit, the one she said she looked decent in. The big dahlia flowers everywhere, along with lilies filling the air with cloying sweetness. Someone had worn jasmine perfume, and it had been tickling my nose with the artificial scent. Behind me, I had heard my father sobbing, and E blowing her nose noisily into a handkerchief. Jack-Jack had been outside, sitting with Lucius, the little boy inconsolable over the loss of his mother.

The car clicked as it filled with gas, and I replaced the pump with dreamy slowness. As I got in the car, I caught a whiff of my mother's familiar scent: something motherly and soft, like laundry detergent mingled with the acidity of smoke. Elastigirl and Helen Parr were the same person, and they had died the same person.

I started to cry so hard I couldn't breathe.

* * *

It was dark in her apartment, and the only sound was the regular ticking of the metallic clock above the sink. Everything was stainless steel and black granite, with polished wooden floors and chic cream-colored rugs in the middle of the living room. The penthouse had a wall of solid glass windows, showing off a dynamite skyline view, and the blue glow of the digital clock on the stove was the only light. It was very cold architecture, with flat modern designs and a few impressionist paintings hanging on the walls. I knew little about art, but I had no doubt they were expensive. Mirage apparently kept fish, and the exotically colored fish swam continuously in the huge tank which was set into the wall. I crouched behind the island in the middle of the kitchen, hearing my steady breathing echo in my ears, and tried not to fall asleep. I had driven straight through the night, and my eyelids felt heavy despite the adrenaline humming through my system.

I heard the thump of the lock, and stood quickly, hidden securely in the shadows. She entered with a spill of golden light from the hallway, and I heard the crinkle of paper bags. As she flicked on the light, our eyes met.

She stayed perfectly still, eyes wide, her posture tense and alert. Her big green eyes strained to see the person behind my white mask, and I was grateful I had the forethought to change into my supersuit. Mirage set the bags down slowly on the counter, still looking at my face, running her eyes over my body, looking for familiarity.

"Who are you?" She asked, and I didn't hear fear or curiosity in her voice, more like flat resignation. There was an odd accent layering her voice, as always. "What do you want?"

"Do you know Mirage Lochimoto?" I asked, and a flash of recognition sparked her eyes.

"No," She said, losing eye contact and staring at my mouth instead. "You have the wrong person."

"Stop playing games," I snapped icily, and folded my arms tightly across my chest. "What's your relationship with Buddy Pine?"

Something shrouded her face, a gauzy exhaustion. "Who are you."

"Someone who wants to see him dead."

Mirage tucked a silver strand of hair behind one ear and sighed, lowering her gaze. "You can take the mask off, Violet."

I didn't move, but my gaze wavered. "I don't think so."

She bent slightly and took off her sleek black heels, setting them neatly next to the cabinets, and began putting food away. Her mundane actions irked me, and I felt a hot prickle flush my cheeks. Before I could say anything, she said quietly, "So what did you come here for? To find out where Buddy is?"

"No, I know where he is," I answered, and circled the island slowly, my booted feet muffled on the soft carpet.

"Is he dead?" He voice was firm but light, uncaring but curious. It is not, I decided, the voice of someone anxious over the loss of a loved one.

"Not yet he's not." I replied coldly.

"Ah, I see," Mirage murmured, putting a bottle of white wine inside the refrigerator to chill. I saw that her refrigerator looked a lot like mine on the inside – stacks of takeout food, half empty, others waiting to be heated up. Another sting of unwillingness burned me. She faced me again, eyes half closed, and regarded me as though she were looking at a small child.

"It's not fair," I said, and I'm suddenly aware how petulant my voice sounded. "Not to just kill him."

"That would be too easy, right?" She said, and something like a bitter smile touches her lips. "I know how obsession works, Violet. I know how much it takes."

"Don't say you know how I feel!" I snarled, my voice ripping to a shout. "_You don't know how I feel!"_

"I do know how you feel," Mirage said, raising her chin to look at me even though I am shorter than her. "You are not the first person to lose someone you love. But you are correct, grief is unique. I don't claim to know how deeply you are hurt, but I do know how much humanity obsession robs you of."

I stood very still, unblinking, my chest heaving from my sudden outburst. The seconds ticked by too rapidly, and everything seemed blurred and surreal. Or was that the stinging in my eyes?

She took a careful step closer to me. "I know how far you bend until you snap. I know that people who have been hurt will lash out at anyone responsible and even people who are not."

"He is responsible!" I growled. "Don't try to make him some sort of saint!"

"Buddy is very guilty, but not of the crime you wish to kill him for," Mirage said implacably. "He is guilty of not being held accountable for his actions, but whose fault is that? The American people? How long will it be until you start extracting revenge on them?"

How long will it be until you cut off both Violet and Invisigirl and become someone completely unknown to you?

I was shaking all over, my entire body quivering with some unknown, deeply seated rage. "I came here to kill you," I said hoarsely. I didn't know what possessed me to say that, but I did.

"I know," Mirage said calmly. "But you don't have a right to. I'm not Buddy, Violet."

"You matter to him," I rasped, my cheeks wet behind my mask. "You matter to him, and he's never had anything taken away from him. Ever."

"From your limited knowledge of him," She answered curtly, and for once I felt as though I was talking to a woman and not a machine. "I deserve my life, Violet. Don't think that you are the only person affected by your father's descent." Her voice was flinty and I felt almost chastised. "You want to hurt Buddy the way he hurt you, I understand that. But do not kill me simply because I mattered to him many years ago. What passed between us has been changed – I do not care for him the way I once did. I don't love him, and I don't hate him. I simply wish he had never existed."

I felt hot, angry, and scolded all at once. My pride hurt, but my heart hurt more. "What do you want me to do?" I said, and my voice sounds harsh. "I'm going to give him what he deserves, Mirage. If not for destroying my family, at least for destroying others!"

"It is not up to you, Violet!" She snapped. "This is not your personal fight!"

An energy ball crackled to my fist, and she knew at once that she'd gone too far. "This is my personal fight," I said lowly. "He made it personal."

She looked at me with big, empty green eyes. "He hasn't made it personal," She whispered. "Not yet."__

* * *

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**A/N:** _Does Violet kill Mirage? Will Violet take Mirage's advice? Tune in next time to find out! ^^_

___Getting a little worried here guys~! Am I doing something wrong? I know people are reading this, since I have 154 views, so could someone please leave a review? :3_


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

I let the searing water burn my eyes with the heat, ran the shower as hot as the feeble pipes would allow, and I still didn't feel warm. A slice of cold split my ribcage lengthwise, and I cried out as the heat burned my neck and shoulders, splashing crimson on my normally pale skin. I let the water drive me, gasping, to my knees as my tangled black hair hung in heavy wet curtains around me. My sobs were rough and scarring, and I curled against the cold ceramic tiles, hugging my knees to my chest. Dimly, I heard a muted click, and the boiling water which descended on me abruptly switched to a freezing downpour; I groped blindly for the knobs and turned everything off.

In the sudden silence of the hotel bathroom, my pounding heartbeat was deafening.

I couldn't kill her. I had driven six hours to be blocked by calm, authoritative reason which came from the mysterious agent known as Mirage. She denied having contact with Syndrome, said she hadn't talked to him since he was captured, and for some reason I believed her. Syndrome no longer meant anything to her and if I killed her, I would be dragging an unwilling victim down to my level, drawing civilians into my obsession.

_I know the nature of obsession…_

Did she? Did she know me so well? Had she once stood in my place, shaking hands pointing a dangerous weapon at an innocent bystander trapped in the path of a crazed lunatic?

Obsession is greedy.

I stumbled out of the shower and spilled onto the floor, getting to my feet slowly. I looked like a haggard, deranged animal when I looked into the mirror above the sink; tears didn't threaten further. I felt empty of tears, as though some giant claw had seized every scrap of emotion and dragged it out of me. Carefully, I pulled my hair away from my face and wrung it out over the sink, arranging it over my shoulder so I could brush it free of snarls. My nakedness frightened me, and I didn't have the courage to peruse my bony, gangly frame. My ribs stood out against the paper-whiteness of my skin, and my hips were straight and boxy. For a year or two, I had been lithe and athletic, full of adrenaline and ready to do battle. Now, I was savaged by grief and slowly being devoured by my obsession with revenge.

My phone rang.

I halted my brushing and wrapped a towel around myself, picking up the slender black phone which bore the familiar picture of my younger brother, Dash. Without hesitation I answered it. "Hey, Dash," I said, trying too hard to sound bright and normal.

He caught my raspy voice immediately. "Hey, Vi, did I just get you up? You sound funny."

"I'm in a bad connection area, actually." Do superheroes lie?

"Oh, all right," Dash said, assuaged by my tale. "I just wanted to call and see how you were doing. How's Retroville? Still full of bad guys? I heard there was a new villain in town."

Shock pierced through my fog of grief and self-pity, followed by a pinprick of actual intelligence. "Oh, yeah, big news down here," I said through my teeth, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

"What are you guys calling her? White Lightning?" He laughed, and I felt inordinately soothed by his normality.

"Yeah, kinda lame, huh?" I tried to imitate his laugh but it came out as a weak gurgle. What was he talking about?

"Vi? You're breaking up again. You must be in a really bad connection area," Dash noted, and then continued. "She didn't sound like too much trouble from what we heard. All she did was chip a couple of buildings, right? You have it under control."

A surge of realization slapped me.

"Y-yeah," I whisper. "Just a c-couple of buildings."

"Well, I can come down there and give you a hand if you want," Dash volunteers, and the world swims sickeningly before my eyes. "Vi? Violet? You okay?"

My laugh is closer to a hysterical giggle. "Oh yeah, just tired," I answered.

"Violet?" His voice is panicked. "Violet, you don't sound fine. What's wrong? What's the matter?"

_I'm the new villain. They think I'm the new villain._

The blood in my head pulsed against my skull, and I thought my heartbeat would lift the towel I had hunched around my skinny body. I close my eyes and hope everything stops whirling. "Doing just great," I answer, and I am suddenly shocked to hear my voice sounds relatively normal. As normal as it should sound under the circumstances, anyway. "I'm just really tired."

"Um," Dash muttered, and I knew he didn't believe me. "Okay. I, uh, hope that new villain doesn't give you any trouble."

_It's ME! I'm the new villain!_The hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up, but I chewed my cheek until I tasted copper. "I don't think she'll be a problem, Dash. She'll probably go away after a while." I bit my fist hard to keep the moaning from bursting from my throat.

Have I truly become the villain? I could only imagine what the headlines look like. Of course, a masked woman throwing bolts at a building would attract attention. I cursed my stupidity, my flashiness, my thirst for drawing Syndrome out in the open overriding my common sense. How could I let this supervillain disappear? I swore never to wear that light blue supersuit again. I would destroy it the moment I got home, tear it to shreds.  
I would either face Syndrome as Violet Parr, or nothing. I couldn't hide any longer.

But I have always been a coward.

"All right," Dash said, sounding completely unconvinced. "How are you doing there? Anybody special?"

Why did a pair of Syndrome's mocking blue eyes flash before my eyes momentarily? I shake my head, freeing the last confusing snarls of a dream which jaunted around my memory for a second. "No, nobody special. How's Dad and Jack-Jack?" I asked, leaning against the bathroom door.

Dash's voice breaks for a moment. "Dad's…doing better. He's less angry. I think the counseling is helping him." He replied, and I heard the open relief in his voice.

"And Jack-Jack?"

There was a long silence, and then a rush of static as he sighed. "He's not doing great, Vi. He's confused…hurt. He's been getting into trouble a lot at school."

Tears prick my eyes, and they surprised me. I thought I had exhausted the well of tears. "I'm sorry, Dash. I…I can come down for a visit, if you'd like-"

He cut me off before I could finish properly. "No, no, that would be worse," He said, and then sighed again. "I would have to explain all over again why you left."

I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt me. My brother is not a hurtful man, even though his flashes of passion occasionally overrode his brain. But his words left gaping holes in my heart, ripping the scab all over again. "I'm sorry, Dash," I whispered. "I…You understand why I stayed, right?"

"Because Retroville needs you," He said matter-of-factly. He didn't sound slighted or hurt, the way he had when I first turned his offer of moving down. "Because you weren't going to uproot yourself just because Mom died."

"Exactly," I said, although it rings hollow. I stayed because of Syndrome. I stayed because I couldn't leave something unfinished. "Look, Dash, I have to go. There are…things I need to do."

"Yeah, okay, sure," Dash said, and I heard his strident tone faltering again. "Call me again sometime, okay?"

"Promise," I said, and I hang up before I can hear him say, 'Love you'.

* * *

Luckily – or maybe unluckily – it was a slow night at the Egg and I.

I was wiping down the corner tables and preparing for closing when I heard the bell jingle. I had long stopped looking up at the customers who entered, since they automatically assumed I would seat them. The other waitresses were smoking out back, and a few of them were chatting quietly behind the front desk, exchanging weekend plans. Part of me longed to brush back my hair and join them, but the other part of me resolutely stayed clearing tables, curling my lip at their carefree merriment. It had been a day since my soul-ravaging trip to Mirage's apartment, and I hadn't slept in forty eight hours. The effects of which couldn't be entirely covered by the limited makeup I owned.

"Hey, sweetheart."

I looked up, an action of the damned.

There he was, less than a pace away, standing right in front of me.

Thick auburn hair styled into odd spikes, big blue eyes the picture of innocence, strong lower jaw accentuated with a flirtatious smile. He had a baby face, despite the lines around his eyes, and his cheeks were strongly freckled; a dimple appeared in his left cheek when he smiled. He was taller than I was, but shorter than most men, with a stocky, triangular build. A white dress shirt was open at the collar and exposed a white scar towards his collarbone, and he kept toying with the expensive Rolex watch on his wrist.

Automatically my fingers curled around a steak knife.

My shock, mingled horror and rage must have shown on my face, because the smirk on his face deepened and he took a step backwards. "Whoa there, sweetheart. Take it easy. Can I get some food? Are you guys still open or what?" He knew what I was feeling, and his eyes were cruelly delighted.

"You…" I whispered, and my chest heaved.

_He hasn't made it personal. Not yet._

_Sweetheart?_

"Take it easy, Violet," He cooed, and took a languid seat at the table to my right. "Aren't you supposed to ask me what I'd like to drink?"

My breath hitched in my throat, and my arm jerked spasmodically as I lifted the knife. A brief flicker of apprehension crossed his eyes, and then it was replaced by smugness. "Get out of here," I hissed, low and primal in my throat. "Get. Out."

"Why? It's a free country, isn't it?" He crossed his arms behind his head and positively lounged in the vinyl booth. "I'll have a martini, stirred, very cold. Oh, I forgot, you're not twenty one yet, are you? Not old enough to serve drinks. Mm. I suppose I'll have a soda then."

I turned away from him and set the tray full of utensils onto a table. My entire body was shaking, as though I would fly to pieces at any moment. I could sink that knife into his breastbone to the hilt, watch him die, and be completely free of him. I can see it in frames – his surprise, his blood, my arrest, jail.

But obsession is greedy.

And that wouldn't hurt enough. The steak knife clattered to the tray.

Everything throbbed as though my body is one massive heartbeat, and I pivoted slowly, meeting his gaze. There was something in my face he reacted to – I think some of my confused hatred was twisting into blankness again. I felt my features relax, and although I still had a lump in my throat, my expression was calm once more. "What kind of soda?"

"You had me worried there for a second," Syndrome smiled. "With that knife. You know, it seems like a lot of women are trying to kill me these days. Some villain came out of nowhere and tried to kill me, isn't that crazy?" His eyes are dancing with mad delight, and each blink of my eyes erases the stinging sensation behind them. Now there was just a ghostly emptiness.

I was locked in a verbal swordfight with Syndrome.

"I don't think that supervillain will be coming back," I said mechanically. "She didn't seem that dangerous." We traded blows cautiously, getting our bearings.

"That's where you're wrong, babe," Syndrome purred. "I think she'll come back, and I think she's very dangerous. I'm not scared though." He checked his nails, buffing them against his shirt. "More…excited." Syndrome's grin was wicked. "This town hasn't had a supervillain for a while."

Anyone listening would know we were up to something – my answers were stilted and rough, trying unsuccessfully to keep my identity a secret while I also tried not to seize a handful of that stupid orange hair and slam his pretty-boy features against the table. "We'll always have a supervillain so long as you're here," I answered, and I felt my hands curling back into fists.

"Who, little old me?" Buddy laughed again. "Please. I repaid my debt to society." He settled back in the vinyl booth and met my gaze again. "But I did hear from an old friend a few hours ago. Apparently the villain who threatened me also went after an old associate of mine. Fancy that, huh?"

"You're lucky she's alive, then," I bit out, "If that villain is as dangerous as you say."

He nodded slowly, his eyes flicking up and down my face and body. "Oh, I don't think she had the guts to kill her in the first place," He smirked.

My temper snapped.

"Enough with the double talk," I snarled, and I took a step forward, closing him into the booth. Even though he was sitting, I felt smaller than him – an impudent child talking back to her elder. "I would have killed Mirage if she hadn't been right about something."

"Oh? And what was that?" He asked, and leaned forward a little, making our conversation a hushed conspiracy. "Was it that you're your daddy's little girl and you can't pull on your boots to kill someone? Is that it?"

"No," I whispered. "She said that this was between me and you. And it is."

Syndrome appeared to consider this for a moment, rubbing his strong lower jaw, and shrugged. "Maybe she's right. So why didn't you put that steak knife to good use when you first saw me?" He asked, crossing his arms as though he already knew the answer.

One moment passed. Then two. I blinked, and looked away, breaking out eye contact. "It's too good for you," I muttered, although there's a flicker of fear inside me – that wasn't entirely true. But what made it a lie? Was it the fact that those blue eyes sometimes tangled through my nightmares but more often slipped into my dreams?

"I see," Syndrome said, "You want to exact some sort of vengeance on me, is that it?"

"Exactly," I answered harshly.

"You're going to have wait for your vengeance, babe, because I think Invisigirl has places to be," He pointed behind my shoulder, and I frowned at him, unwilling to turn my back. When I didn't move, he sniffed. "All right then. Fine. Let those poor people die."

Poor people die?

I spun around fast, and my eyes snag on the television screen mounted in the corner. Behind me, I dimly hear Syndrome laughing at my ingrained morals rising up, but my heart is in my mouth. On the screen, images were flashing – SWAT teams assembled outside the First National Bank, five hostages bound and gagged on the polished marble floors, and a tall man with explosives strapped to his chest strutting around desks. The scrolling text at the bottom read: **confirmed by officials. Bomb Voyage has nineteen known hostages and threatens to incinerate everything if his demands are not met. Invisigirl has not arrived on the scene, this confirmed by officials.**

Bomb Voyage.

The world spins again, and there was a dangerous chance of the black fuzz in the corners of my vision swallowing me completely. I turned back to Syndrome, my mouth open, eyes wild, and my hand is raised to smack him, punch him, whatever I can do. He snatched my wrist, twisting it a little as he restrained me with one hand; he raised his eyebrows at me. "Give me a break," He grumbled, "You honestly think I set this up? Bombs? How tacky."

I ripped my arm free from his grasp, ignoring the electric tingles shuddering up to my shoulder, and ran for the exit. Syndrome calls after me, "Better run, Violet! Time's a-wasting!"

He was right. Time was being wasted.

Invisigirl had to come out to play.

* * *

**A/N:** _Ugh. I feel like this chapter is really bad, for some reason. I didn't have one block of time I could sit down and write it, it was all in ten or fifteen minute incriments. =.= So I think everything is sort of scattered, and I don't have anyone else but me to check over it...Grr. _


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Five**

* * *

One of the benefits of being a super is that many toxins are purged through our blood very quickly. Colds don't last as long on us, for instance, and medication wears off very quickly. It makes it difficult when we have a serious injury, however, and because superheroes don't like having our powers put on record, we don't get any more painkillers than the average person. But it's useful if someone tries to poison us to get us sick, since it will wear off quicker than it usually would.

It's also handy when, say, an archenemy injects a knockout drug into your veins and tries to kidnap you.

I came out of my stupor not exactly swinging – it took me quite a while to get myself oriented to my surroundings. There was a steady pulse of pain in my torso, and I fairly sure it was this that had woken me up. However, seeing as I had a broken rib, the pain should have been far more serious than it was; that should have alerted me. All I could see around me was white for a moment, and then the fuzz gradually settled into distinct shapes. A couch, a colorful rug, and a tasteful painting all added soft, unfamiliar touches to the room. I was lying in a bed, a _very_ comfortable bed I might add, and I regretfully say that I didn't at once leap out of bed and try to escape. The bed was full of soft pillows – there were at least four – and the blankets were just heavy enough to discourage my legs from moving when I wanted.

But after goodness knows how long, I remembered how I had come there.

I sat up as quickly as I could, although the brief stab of pain in my chest warned me decisively that I shouldn't be blundering about just yet. Despite that, I swung my feet onto the carpeted floor and stood up, feeling my brow knot as I attempted to sponge out the pain.

"I wouldn't do that just yet, if I were you."

I turned a little too quickly and gritted my teeth at the pain. "Let me go," I ordered, my voice slightly raspy.

He lounged against the doorframe, in his normal clothes once more, his flame-colored hair still teased into spikes. "By all means, go," Syndrome said sweetly. "I'm not keeping you here. I thought I'd get a _little_ bit of gratitude, seeing as I saved your life and repaired your supersuit and helped you out so nicely."

"Repaired my supersuit?" I echoed out of disbelief, and I automatically looked down. My heart clenched in my throat; I was no longer wearing my sleek purple and black supersuit which hid my scars so tastefully. Instead, I wore a pair of green silk pajamas which looked more like the belonged on my grandmother – my thin frame was completely swallowed in pale green silk. I glared at him, hating him for inciting that flush along my cheeks. He _undressed_ me, that pervert. I hadn't exposed my body to anyone, and to think that he had that advantage while I was unconscious made my skin crawl.

"Yeah, you tore a hole through it somehow," Syndrome said, and checked his nails. He grinned at my ferocious expression. "Green suits you. You might want to start eating more, though, you look pretty skinny."

A hot blush seared my cheeks and I crossed my arms and legs, ignoring the flutter of pain which skipped up my side. "You ass," I seethed at him.

"Wow, you are _so_ ungrateful," He chuckled, taking a few steps towards me and shoving his hands into his pockets with unlawful casualness. "Superheroes are, I've found as a general rule."

"Then why would you want to be one? Oh, right, for the fame and glory," I said bitingly, my eyes skating around the room. Something had to be used as a weapon. There was a lamp on the side table on the opposite side of the room – if I turned invisible, he wouldn't know where I was heading, and then I could grab the lamp and knock him unconscious before he knew what was happening. Even as my muscles tensed, however, some logical part of my mind told me that he had made no move to stop me. Would he try to stop me? Even without a broken rib, I didn't think I could get past the formidable blocky, roughly hewn build.

"Well, partly for the fame and glory," Syndrome agreed, and he followed my eyes to the lamp. He caught my gaze and I turned away, setting my jaw angrily. "But mostly to see how you'd react."

I furrowed my brow, looking up, unsure of what to say or do. He was playing with me? _Jerk,_ I thought to myself furiously. Just like him to play with a mouse before he ate it. This would be one mouse that got a few scratches in, however. My hands curled into fists, and I narrowed my eyes at him. This was _my_ revenge, not his. He couldn't concoct a plan to test my mettle before I killed him, I wouldn't allow it.

"You have really remarkable eyes," He added, his voice a little softer, and I realized with an awkward jolt that he had been studying my face. "Purple. You don't look like your mother."

I went for the vase before I even turned invisible. I don't think I was even conscious I was doing it. My only intent was to smash something across his stupid cheeky face and force those words back into his mouth; people had always said I looked more like my aunt than my mother, but to even _hear_ that weasel say them made my anger flare. The pain ripped up my side as I raised the vase to hit him, but with unerring speed and eerie dexterity, he plucked it from my gasp as though I were a rambunctious toddler.

He made a _tsssh_ noise of compressed laughter between his teeth, and grabbed one of my arms as I lunged for him. "Control yourself," Syndrome snapped, and shoved me away from him with enough force to make me stumble. "What's wrong with you? I haven't _done_ anything to you." He seemed genuinely puzzled by this – or, at least, I couldn't see any deceit in his expressive blue eyes.

"You haven't _done_ anything?" I demanded, holding an arm across my ribs to keep the pain to a dull throb. "Oh, you _only_ tried to kill my whole family, and you _only_ survived the death that you _earned_, and you _only_ bought your freedom by paying off every judge and jury, and you _only_ destroyed my father's faith in humanity, and you _only_ designed the equipment that _killed my mother!_" My tirade was broken by my breath running out, and I felt the hot sting of tears branding my eyes. I wouldn't cry in front of him, I wouldn't!

"I see," He murmured, and looked up at me from beneath lowered lashes, "So your mother died and you don't want to blame your father? Is that it? So you blame me. Well, I'm an easy target, I suppose."

"I don't want to blame my father!" The words came out as one run-on sentence, one blurred syllable of defiant anger. "I blame _you_ for corrupting him! For making him lose faith in the people he protected!"

He was looking at me oddly again, looking at me with a thoughtful expression as though he were examining every feature on my face. "Then go ahead," He prompted. "Kill me." Syndrome handed the vase back and leaned against the wall. "C'mon, you've had several chances now. Three times, in fact - I'm starting to think you don't want to kill me at all."

My breath tore from my throat in a gasp, and I picked up the vase. The weight felt good on my hands – solid and good for bringing down hard. "I do want to kill you," I whispered, although it was more to myself. "I do."

"No, you don't," Syndrome said, and pushed himself off the wall. "You don't _really_ want to, because you would have killed me the first time you saw me. You would have gone right out after your mother died and jammed a gun in my head, or kept me in one of those shield-bubble-things until I suffocated, or however superheroes kill someone. No, _I_ think that you went around looking for someone to blame. There were a couple of options – blame your mother, for being a superhero, which would work except you're a superhero yourself. You could blame your father, for allowing your mother to do all the hard work and try to protect this town with the help of an eighteen year old girl."

I couldn't remember how to breathe.

"Or you could blame me," Syndrome continued relentlessly, "for buying my freedom like a shiny new car and destroying your father's 'faith in humanity'." His fingers sketched air quotes around the phrase. "You've given your parents sainthood, whether they've earned it or not, so the easiest target was me. Am I right?"

_Was he right?_

My father went into a slump after Syndrome's acquittal. He had put his faith in the world to put criminals to justice, only to discover that the people he was protecting were greedy and selfish, and would do or say anything for the right price. He became all but useless fighting against criminals, and my mother ordered him to pull himself together or get out of the business altogether. I remember that day so vividly – it had been late afternoon, my father with his head in his hands at the kitchen table, my mother standing over him with a hand on her hip. A mug of coffee waved up little smoke signals of steam between them. Glazed sunshine poured through the curtains, and I leaned against the wall being invisible, as usual. My father had sighed, a carrying-the-world-on-my-shoulders sigh, and nodded once.

She had died three days later, before he had even gotten a full chance to turn himself around. After she died, his downward spiral was short and abrupt; after the funeral, Dash had approached me and told me they were moving. Said they were leaving Retroville behind for good, going someplace with seasons and changes. I wished them luck, helped them move, and remained behind in a town full of ghosts and skeletons.

"No," I breathed. I had wanted to kill him the very moment I discovered what had killed my mother. I knew he would resurface, and my utmost nightmare was that he would find us and destroy us one by one. But he knew where we lived, knew our identities, and could have exploited us in a million different ways. He didn't. "No, I don't blame my parents. I don't blame anyone except _you_, and Bomb Voyage."

"Then kill me. Go ahead."

He spread his hands, giving me a clear shot at his torso and face. He was testing me, the same way he had tested my father when he held Mirage's life in his hands.

I raised the vase, knowing exactly where I would hit him – right on the temple, to shut those big blue eyes that tormented me so very much.

My hand trembled, and I made the mistake of _looking_ at those eyes.

Would my mother approve of me? Would my father? As much as my dad hated Syndrome, he wouldn't have wanted me to kill him. I had no claim over him, no claim other than my passionate hatred for anything associated with the supervillain. Should I just truss him up and turn him over to my father, then? My dad would kill him, I had no doubt.

I let my elbow unlock, and the vase dropped from my hand, landing with a resonant thud on the carpet.

I don't know what I expected him to do – look satisfied? Relieved? Disappointed?

Instead, he smiled at me. He had crooked teeth, something which matched his freckles with annoying charm. "Like father, like daughter."

I reached for the vase again.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Six**

* * *

"Son of a _bitch!_"

Despite the vehement curse, there was more vague admiration in the glance he shot me as he pressed his hand to his eye. I glared at him from my position on the floor, and tossed my hair out of my face defiantly. "You asked for that," I spat, and Syndrome blinked his wounded eye hard. It would probably blacken, _good_, but he seemed more interested that I had managed to somehow score a glancing blow on his shoulder with the vase and then sock him in the eye. It had taken him mere seconds to restrain me and toss me casually against the bed and onto the floor; he was viciously quick when it came to moving. The tussle had lasted perhaps thirty seconds, but there was no doubt that he was the winner. At least I had inflicted some sort of physical pain upon him, even if it was only a punch to the eye and a slightly bruised shoulder.

"Thank God," He said aloud, and I groped for the vase again – it had rolled under the bed. "For a minute there, I thought you were _completely_ incorruptible."

He shook his head sharply and blinked again, seemingly disregarding the pain in his head. "Shut up," I snapped at him. "Nobody's incorruptible. It's human nature." Some of the fight was spilling out of me – connecting with him, forcing some of my anger onto his skin and leaving a temporary mark, it somehow bled some of my rage away.

He looked at me on the floor for a moment, and I realized that I was still sitting with my hand near the vase, almost sulking to myself. I got to my feet, wincing at the sharp, staccato burst of pain, and held a hand to my side quickly. "Let me see that," He ordered, eyeing my ribcage, and I gave him a murderous glare.

"Not a chance," I answered harshly.

"You're a guest in my house, and it's _my_ job to make sure that you're looked after," Syndrome said firmly, although there was a little smirk on his face. "Now get back on that bed, I need to make sure you didn't pull through that bandage I put on you."

"Make me," The cliché tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it, and I dropped his gaze. "If you touch me, I swear to God I'll rip your head off."

"How obvious do I have to be?" He demanded, losing his temper. "Have I caused _you_ any physical harm? Now _sit_ on that bed, or else you won't be the only one throwing punches." Those blue eyes were narrowed and I was reminded forcibly that behind the mask of sarcasm, the dangerous supervillain still lurked menacingly. I backed up, not relinquishing my hold on my middle; being tended by Syndrome was distinctly unsettling, and it put me in mind of that scary movie I had watched when I was eleven - _Silence of the Lambs_. Mom had been furious that I had watched it so young, but I couldn't displace the chilling feeling of recognition whenever I saw Syndrome's clear blue eyes.

"I can take care of myself," I said, and my ears popped; I heard how childish my voice sounded in my own head.

"Because you're doing such a fabulous job of taking care of yourself," Syndrome bit out. "Now sit. Down." After another heartbeat, his hand flashed forward as if to grab me, and I sat down quickly on the edge of the bed. He didn't have a weapon, but even with the vase I felt unprotected and vulnerable. His gaze was hard and direct, making me feel as though I were completely exposed for his scrutiny. It wasn't a pleasant kind of exposure, either, the kind that kept me up at night sometimes – no, this felt cold and harsh, as though I stretched out on a gurney for his methodical inspection.

The cool air tickled my stomach as he flipped up the front of my borrowed green silk, and my tight hold on my ribcage relinquished somewhat. Pain seeped into my heartbeat, and I felt the steady _thud-thud-thud_ tattooing pain into my broken rib. I heard him kneeling next to me, and I focused on the smooth white walls, anything but look at his face. I looked up at the ceiling and shivered when I felt his fingers deftly pull on the edges of my bandage, peeling it back carefully and with almost easy gentleness. There was stark, mottled blue bruising over my whole left side, and there was a shiny red mark where I guessed the break had happened – whatever it was, it hurt to breathe without the curiously pain-calming bandage on my side.

"Just like I thought," He said, but his voice had dropped from a threatening shout to a mellow purr, "Nearly pulled right through. You supers don't take very good care of yourselves."

I clenched my teeth and heard the sound of paper being pulled off something, and I dug my fingernails into my palms. "We take care of ourselves perfectly fine," I hissed between gritted teeth. The pain was huge, overwhelming, occupying some gigantic space in my brain.

A hand skated over my bruised side and then over to my unblemished, bony hip. "This," He asked, thumbing where the bone jutted from my hip, "is taking care of yourself?" I knew what he meant. The sleepless nights, the days where food went uneaten, it was all taking a ravaging toll on my body. But it didn't make it smart any less - I slapped his hand away.

"I thought you were going to fix my rib," I gasped in surprise and bit my tongue as something cool was applied to my bruised ribcage. "Not stand around and call me – ah! - worthless."

"I didn't call you worthless," He whispered, and there was an unknown element in his tone, something that made me tear my gaze from the ceiling and meet his eyes. The startling intensity in his gaze made me shrink away from him, fear spiking my veins and making my mouth go dry. "I said you need someone to take _care_ of you."

He was frightening me. For the first time, I was consciously aware of my fear of him. Sometimes it nagged, creating a lingering metallic taste in my mouth when I thought about how effortlessly he had killed those superheroes. But this, this was different.

Syndrome pressed a fresh blue bandage against my swollen torso and stood, crumpling paper in his palms. His face was impassive once more, devoid of any smirk or maliciousness. "Stand up," He said, and it was an order – a command. "Does it still hurt?" Beneath the brusque demand, there was gentleness in his voice.

"No," I said, and inched away from him. I wasn't lying, I no longer noticed my rib. There was something in his eyes when he looked at me, something so very _familiar_, something I had seen in real life before…my father looking at my mother…Tony looking at Lindsey…

_Desire_.

It knifed through me and he saw my sudden realization, the openness on my face before I could smother it. _Desire_. He wanted me, not my family, not my father, _me_. He had never done any physical harm to _me_. Why had he stressed that so much? Was it because I was the only member of my family he didn't hate? Didn't want to destroy? Or did I symbolize whatever my family stood for, and he wanted to crush it into oblivion?

Why was he still looking at me like that?

"Are you going to hit me with that vase again?" He asked, piercing through my reverie. "Otherwise, I believe I have work to do."

He _must_ have seen something – known something. There was too much unwarranted venom in the turning of his heel, the slamming of the door. His dramatic exit barely registered on me. I was suddenly hyper-aware of every place he had touched on my body. It felt like a simmering burn, especially that thumbprint he had left on my hipbone, and I shuddered unconsciously.

It couldn't be. There had to be some sinister manipulation behind this, had to be some sort of twisted goal to all this. Still shaking slightly, I threw open the door and followed him down a posh corridor and around a corner, not quite taking in my surroundings except that it seemed clean and expensive. "Wait!" I shouted, and as he turned around, I had never felt so childish in my life. Standing there, drowning in green pajamas, upturning my face towards a taller, broader individual who looked down on me contemptuously...

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

My mind blanked – what had I wanted to ask him? Unbidden, a dark question flirted at the edges of my mind and came out of my mouth. "If I had killed Mirage, would it have hurt you?"

What possessed me to ask him that? After the confusing mix of emotions I had gotten from him, _that_ was the only thing I wanted to know? I lifted my eyes sharply and our gazes crashed together; I wanted a read on him. I wanted to know if he had given me a tool I could use.

His smirk was back, although it didn't seem as condescending as before. He was closed off, brisk. "Killing a former coworker who once betrayed me and turned me over to the authorities? Come on, Vi, that was practically doing me a _favor_."

"You didn't answer my question."

There it was, that flicker of heat which passed over his face when he saw my determined expression. "Smart girl," He chuckled. "Now, either get Fred to show you the way out, or get to bed. I need to put some _ice_ on that nice little love bite you gave me."

I stood there in the hallway, watching him walk away. My mind clicked furiously, turning and roiling in confusing emotions and thoughts. There was no doubt – he cared for me, in some sort of twisted fashion. He must be plotting something. Either that, or he had developed some sort of…feelings…for me. That thought was almost dismissed as too squeamish to think about, but something thunked into place.

_Smart girl._

Syndrome didn't care for anything. His businesses could fail, his employees could be killed, his lovers destroyed, but he wouldn't care. He was too wrapped up in his own ego. But somehow, _somehow_, he had gotten some sort of attachment to me. There were two explanations that I could see for his behavior: one, that he was using me for some sort of sinister scheme. That was the safe answer. The other, was that he had gotten emotionally attached to me somehow. I needed to write something down, to think, to pace, but the pain in my side was needling even as my brain kicked into a higher gear.

If he liked me, then I could make him lose me.

I could _give_ him something to care for, and then take it away. _Make_ him care for me, and then watch him while I took myself away.

Would that even _work_?

I needed to plan. To plan, to plot, and research.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

It was hot and sticky in my modest little superhero hideout, but I ignored this as I paced. If someone had surprised me in my small lair, it would have looked as though I were a psychopath; I had dragged a huge whiteboard from the basement and leaned it against the wall, and it was full of notes in red marker. There were sheets of paper tacked to the walls, roughly organized by thought process and planning outline, most of them evidence of my plans to capture criminals. There were new gadgets from E stacked in boxes by the door, and my supersuit was hanging on a sleek metal mannequin in the back of the room. Unlike most superhero hideouts, this was cluttered and unkempt – I kept meaning to clean it out and get some of the messier stacks out of there, but for some reason I kept putting it off. It was far too humid to even think about turning on a light, so I paced restlessly in the dark, hot, damp air. The pain in my rib went relatively unnoticed, my mind too worked up to think about how long it had been since I ate or took care of my side.

If he had some sort of affection for me, how had it developed? Did he realize his feelings? And if so, would he act upon them?

If he _knew_ he cared for me and would act on his feelings if given the chance, how should I proceed? Should I start as an unlikely friendship, or simply try and seduce him? The last part made me squirm uncomfortably inside my sweaty tank top.

No, I couldn't do it. There were too many unknown variables in the plan to even think of putting them into action – the smallest misstep and I could find myself with not only a dangerous enemy, but possibly alienate myself from my family completely. My family may have been fractured, but at least I could call them up without being shut down.

Speaking of which, I hadn't called Dash in weeks. He had always called me.

I pushed my tangled, frizzy black hair out of my eyes and leaned against the wall, drinking the humid wall of pressure and feeling trapped in a corner. I couldn't inflict any pain on him, not the kind of pain I had to live with. Physical pain, yes, but not emotional pain. He had come so far and knew how to play everyone, and cared so little for anything he possessed – how could I damage that? Even throwing him in jail, taking his freedom away wouldn't be enough. He would just bide his time until the moment was ripe, and then pounce out of jail and onto the hem of my cape.  
So I was stuck. He cared something for me, he had _some_ positive feeling for me that had to be exploited somehow – but when? And, far more importantly, how? I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed Dash's number, swallowing a lump in my throat and hoping I sounded normal.

"Hey, Dash?" I said when I heard him pick up.

"Violet?" He said, sounding surprised. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to call and check how you guys were doing," I answered, closing my eyes and gripping a handful of my hair as I strained to sound calm.

"We're doing fine," Dash said, and his surprise was wearing off. "Jack-Jack is in soccer now, and we're going to put him in power training, so he can get his powers more under control." He sounded relieved and bright to be reporting good news about his baby brother.

"That's great," I said with a sigh of relief. "Um, could I talk to Dad?"

"…Sure," Dash answered after a pause. "What's up?"

"I…met someone."

"Really?" Dash said, sounding exuberant. "That's great! What's his name?"

"Can I please just talk to Dad?" It was becoming a chore to keep the artificial normality in my tone.

"Violet? Are you all right?" I heard the deep, assuring voice of my father and I instantly relaxed. This was the voice of the good old days, before Syndrome, before superheroes, before everything. When I was still hopelessly in love with Tony Rydinger, when Dash was still annoying and not responsible, and Jack-Jack was a normal, happy baby. When Mom was still alive.

"I met him." I said, and I don't try to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. "Syndrome. Several times, in fact. He messed up my arrest of Bomb Voyage because he's trying to be some sort of superhero now. I broke my rib, so he drugged me and took me back to his place." It felt so good to tell someone, the words were tripping over one another in an effort to get out. "He's…he's trying to be nice to me, and I don't know if he's trying to mess with my head or, or he's doing it for some other reason."

There was a long pause, and then, "I'm coming up there." The determination in his voice made him sound younger, more refreshed, and I knew he was shrugging off a week's worth of depression just by envisioning saving me from Syndrome.

"No, you're not!" I practically shout at the phone, and my rib thuds dully with pain in protest. "No, I can take care of this _myself_! I just want your advice. What would you do? I don't know anymore, there's no superheroes here I can trust, and I just…I just need someone to tell me what to do. Just for once. Instead of me trying to make everything up on the fly."

"Violet, I knew you shouldn't have stayed, it's too dangerous! I'm coming there, Violet, he's a dangerous man, and -!"

"Just tell me what to do!" I bit my tongue to keep my cry from obtaining that razor sharp edge. "I'm not asking for help, Dad, I'm asking for advice!"

There was a very slow, shuddering sigh from the other end of the line, and then he said softly, "Violet…You know he's a danger to people. To you. To everyone he's around. He's not safe unless he's dead."

I sank to the floor, closing my eyes tightly against the tears. "You're telling me to kill him?" I croaked, feeling the lump in my throat close off my speech.

"It's the safest way. Dash and I will be there in the morning, don't –"

"Stay there." I rapped out, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I'm not going to inflict this on Jack-Jack. I can take care of this, Dad. I'm not a little girl."

"No, you're not, but if he's showing an interest in you –"

"Then he'll be even easier to take down," I cut him off, and my voice had somehow acquired a soothing note to it. I was planning murder, a sensible part of my brain realized, in a cold and perfectly calm manner. I felt the shakes coming back on – steady vibration which shook my whole frame with my shivers. Even in the muggy air of my superhero hideout, I felt cold.

"Violet, are you sure?" He said, and he sounded broken. Defeated.

I let my head fall back. Am I sure? Can I do this?

_Yes._

_For Mom._

"Ignore the news for the next couple of weeks," I told him quietly. "I have a plan."

* * *

"Well, if it isn't little miss congeniality," Chuckled a familiar voice on the other end of the phone. "How'd you get my number?"

I had showered and changed, and instead of pacing around my secret hideout, I was pacing around my kitchen. I had the strangest notion that he could see me, so I had thrown on an old lumpy gray sweater to give myself the appearance of meat on my bones; those chilling blue eyes always seemed to be watching me. "A friend of a friend had a few contacts with numbers," I answered, and sat down on a chair. "Listen, I wanted to…"

The words stuck in my throat. He killed my mother. That bastard.

"…I wanted to thank you. For fixing my rib. It feels a lot better now." I was horrified at myself, but struggled to maintain my composure. It was part of the plan. I was the Girl With A Plan. I would stick to the plan, no matter what.

"Oh? And what prompted this sudden change of heart?" Syndrome wanted to know. "Last time I saw you, you were wondering which one of my acquaintances you wanted to kill next and trying to put your fist through my head."

"I talked to my father," I answered, and my voice broke towards the end.

"Somehow I find it difficult to believe that he heard your sordid tale and commanded you to go out and thank me," Syndrome replied blithely.

"He told me to kill you, actually."

"Really? Nice of him. I should return the favor one of these days."

"If you ever lay a hand on my family -!" I have to stop myself, and the pain from not unleashing my wrath is almost physical. My swallowed expletives taste sour in my mouth, and I choke.

"Atta girl," Syndrome said, sounding delighted. "I knew I could get you going."

"This isn't a game," I hissed at him. "You know what? This was a mistake."

"No, no, it's actually rather sweet," He said, and his amusing tone never went way. "Continue, please."

I gritted my teeth. "That was all I had to say. Thank you for fixing my rib, and stay the hell away from my family."

"Oh, good, I like a girl who's direct."

"Are you going to stop insulting me?" I snapped.

"That depends. Are you going to hang up?"

I threw the phone across the room and stomped out of the kitchen, fuming to myself. I rolled up the sleeves of my gray sweater and tried to stop myself from shaking. There seemed to be cracks in my heart, and I felt like I was curling up at the seams, trying to protect myself. I couldn't open myself up like this – he would know I was faking, and he would crush me.

From a distance, I heard my phone ringing. He was trying to call me back?

What would my _mother_ have done? Picked up the phone, or forgotten about everything?

My mother was strong. I couldn't allow my weakness to intercept The Plan.

"What." I growled as I picked up the phone.

"You're a delight whenever you pick up the phone. I bet you're a morning person too, all chipper and sweet." His tone was deeply amused with the undercurrent of a chuckle. "So, your father told you to kill me and you decide to apologize instead? What, is this your teenage angst coming out?"

"I'm not a teenager anymore," I told him icily. "I'm someone who can make her own decisions, and my decision right now is to either make you say whatever you called me back for, or hang up."

"No, you're not a little girl anymore, are you?" He mused, almost to himself. "Which brings me to my next question: Do you like Italian food?"

The world stopped spinning. "Wh-what?"

"Do I stutter as badly as you?" He retorted.

"Like, spaghetti?" I asked stupidly, and could have kicked myself. I was always aware how childish I sounded around him, how petulant and whiny. Did I sound this stupid to him?

"Yes, like spaghetti. Have you eaten, and do you enjoy eating, spaghetti?" He was growing slightly impatient now, and I narrowed my eyes, backing myself against the wall as if I could gain some comfort there.

"That depends on what company I'm keeping," I said slowly. "Are you…are you asking me _out_?"

"That's one way to put it," He said evasively. "I was actually more interested in seeing the expression on your father's face when he comes charging into Retroville and realizes the two of us are out for dinner together."

There was that familiar maliciousness. "He's not coming back up here," I said dully. "I told him I could handle you myself."

"That you can, sweetheart. I'll pick you up at eight tomorrow, okay?" He hung up before I had a chance to respond, and when all I heard was the dial tone, I hung up as though in a daze.

This was supposed to be _my_ plan! Not his! When had my plan of making him my friend turned him into him asking me out on a date? This was at least five steps ahead of schedule, and I had no idea what to do.

More importantly, what would I _wear?_

And _why_ had I agreed to a _date_ with Syndrome?


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

"I give up! I give up! Just _please_ don't hurt me!"

I threw a static sphere around the criminal for good measure, and took a breather against the wall. The museum alarm blared continually in the background, and I gritted my teeth against the screeching wail of noise. There were three petty art thieves who had proved more of a challenge than I had expected, and I was already feeling the sting of several bruises rising on my skin. Two of the thieves were flat on their stomachs, groaning as they struggled to consciousness, and discovering that they were handcuffed firmly to a large metal pole in the middle of the room. The other one I had just barely managed to subdue, and he was cringing in one of my shield bubbles, obviously waiting for me to either shoot him or taser him or something far worse.

"Get up," I sighed, exhausted. "I don't have time for this." I had been running around like crazy all day – apparently Fridays were especially good for the criminal business, because my police scanner had been going nuts today. I dusted my gloves on my spandex suit and clicked the cuffs around his wrists. With the three men securely cuffed and the art once more restored on the walls, I allowed myself a brief moment of relaxation – after I had slipped my invisibility on, of course. I rubbed my eyes tiredly and leaned against one of the tall columns which dotted the gallery floor. The police would be here soon, which meant I would need to deal with the press while they hauled the criminals away.

It had gotten awkward these past few months, dealing with the police – there were several of them who were of the mind that the supers were rendering their job useless. Which wasn't true, of course; we couldn't be everywhere at all times. We did have secret identities to uphold, appointments to keep…

Appointments to keep. And just like that, my date with Syndrome was back on my mind.

I had purposefully kept myself busy all day so I wouldn't think about it, but it kept nagging at me relentlessly. I went back and forth – should I blow him off? Should I go on the date? The Plan dictated that I had to eventually ask him out to dinner, but he had messed everything up by asking me out on a _date_ instead. Feigning romantic interest with Syndrome would be infinitely harder than feigning tolerance with Syndrome, and I wasn't sure if I could do it. Then again, if he _did_ like me, then half the work was already done, wasn't it?

The sirens wailed in the distance, gradually increasing in sound as they skidded to a stop in front of the museum. I let my invisibility fall as I stepped outside into the fading light and offered a one-sided smile. "Already done, thanks," I said politely. "There's three of them in there."

They rushed past me and I stepped off the curb, pressing a button on my wrist. A sleek silver motorcycle zipped up to the curb with a small chirp, and I swung a leg over it tiredly. "Good evening, Invisigirl," The digital voice in my motorcycle intoned. "You have a scheduled appointment in fifteen minutes."

I kicked away from the curb and took off down the street, swerving neatly around cars. With a slightly elevated effort than usual, I turned myself and the bike invisible, enabling me to hide in plain sight. "I know, thank you," I muttered to the dashboard. Instead of taking the left hand turn to my apartment, I kept going straight, heading goodness knows where. I wouldn't go to that date – I couldn't.

But what should I do about The Plan?

I gunned the bike and shot through a green light, darting neatly around a string of cars and trucks. There was nothing I could do, nothing except drive. I chased down the double yellow line again, chasing it until my schedule cheeped, alerting me that I was late for my appointment. Good.

I was such a coward. I was disgusted with myself.

* * *

I dumped my keys in the dish by the door, dragging myself into my dark apartment tiredly. It was so late, and every part of me ached. I hurt from saving lives, I hurt from pretending to be a superhero, I hurt from riding my motorcycle for nearly an hour in pointless circles - I wanted nothing more than to sink in a bath and forget about everything. Part of me wanted to cry because of my utter cowardice; but did it count as cowardice? Having dinner with the man who killed my mother, wasn't it natural that I didn't want to go? But I wasn't sticking to The Plan, and without The Plan I wouldn't have anything. I would be nothing, and there would be nothing I could use against Syndrome. My reluctance to put myself in harm's way – not for somebody else's life, but for my own _sanity_ - made me frustrated and shaky.

"Nice little place you have here, _Violet_."

I nearly jumped out of my skin, and a shield popped up around me reflexively. There he was, the smug bastard, lounging against the doorframe looking for the entire world as though he belonged there – shirt untucked, hair rumpled, one hand shoved in his pocket. That damned smug smile was still there, and he gestured to the overstuffed recliner in the corner next to the heater; the corner I called my thinking spot. "That's a very comfortable chair. You can put the shield down, by the way. I'm not going to shoot you." He said lightly.

The shield around me flickered out, and I didn't feel safe until I put a table between us, pacing halfway around my kitchen. "What are you doing here," I asked warily, my adrenaline-weary body once again surging awake.

"Well, I was under the impression that I had a dinner engagement with you tonight," Syndrome said, his pale blue eyes narrowed and teasing. "Need help getting out of that supersuit?"

"No!" I said, and my voice sounded high and panicked. "What are you doing in my _home?_ You're not supposed to be here! Go away!"

"So I'm determined," Syndrome shrugged. "And I think I deserve an apology, seeing as you stood me up." Oh, he was _enjoying_ this, the smug little…!

I hurried past him and into my bedroom, closing the door behind me firmly. He was following me though, although he did have the decency to stay outside and not push his luck. The day he tried to invade my bedroom would be the day he got a broken nose. "I was busy all day trying to fight crime," I called through the closed door, unzipping my supersuit with some difficulty seeing as my hands were shaking erratically again. "Something which you know nothing about."

"Oh, I don't know, I thought we made a pretty good team the other day," Syndrome answered. "By the way, you don't have any pets? Not even a cat?"

"I don't have time," I snapped, hanging my supersuit next to the other ones in my hidden closet. "The last thing I need is another thing to neglect."

"The way you've been neglecting yourself?" He asked, still mockingly.

I tied my housecoat around myself tightly, and then threw open my bedroom door. He was closer to the door than I expected, and my nose almost hit his broad chest. I glowered up at him, feeling the barely controlled rage clench my fists. "Listen, the reason I didn't come tonight is because I was tired, and I wanted to go home and take a bath, not spend the entire evening trying not to kill you. So please - _go home_."

His eyes narrowed and his mouth shifted in an odd way, almost as if he were suppressing a laugh. "Unfortunately, no, I canceled several appointments merely to be here tonight. So it appears as though you're stuck with me. And nothing's stopping you from taking a bath." He smirked. "I'll have Fred bring up something to eat."

My mind tumbled, confused, as I tried to make sense of what just happened. "Wait, what? You brought your manservant here? And I'm not taking a bath with you in the house!"

"Oh please," Syndrome called as he crossed the next room in order to get to the front door, "Like I'm going to peek. Give me some credit, Vi."

He was too far away to hear me, but I muttered under my breath rebelliously, "Don't call me Vi. Only my family calls me Vi. You jerk."

I went to my bedroom and wiggled into a pair of loose jeans, then pulled an old blue cardigan over my white tee shirt. I looked and felt as though I had just rolled out of a garbage pail, but I wasn't going to dress up for him. I had tried to be a coward, and what happened? My cowardice proved to be insufficient, and now I was still stuck with a murderer for the evening. I tucked a small shock knife into the waistband of my jeans, just to be safe. _Stick to the plan, Vi. No sudden moves. _

Fred turned out not to be the tall, silver-haired butler I had expected him to be; he was lanky with unruly blonde hair and tortoise shell glasses, but had a perpetual smile which was a nice compliment to Buddy's sneer. In his arms were several boxes and he had a few paper bags tucked into his elbows. "You must be Violet," He said, and I discovered he had a Cockney accent which sounded rather nice, "Charming to meet you at last, I heard you're a pasta lover? Excellent, I'll just put these on the table then," He said, and I discovered the battered little card table I used as a dining room table looked almost nice with a checkered tablecloth over it. Out of nowhere, he produced a small vase with two zinnias in it, and set it in the middle.

"No bath?" Syndrome said behind me, and I turned around, hugging myself tightly. I felt awkward and uncomfortable with all these people here, as I usually did when people were in my apartment.

"Didn't want to take a chance with _you_ in the house," I mumbled under my breath. "What's all this, Syndrome?"

"Dinner," He said, blinking as though I were slow. "Take a seat."

I sat down hesitantly, the faintly vibrating shock knife giving me comfort. Fred set a plate full of steaming fettuccini in front of me, and with a quick turn of his wrist, ladled some Alfredo sauce over it. It was warm, familiar comfort food, the kind my mother would like. I pushed this thought away ruthlessly and met Syndrome's eyes again, uncertain and cautious. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you fascinate me," He said, and he seemed perfectly innocent as he twirled some spaghetti around his fork. It didn't escape my notice that Fred discreetly disappeared with Syndrome's suitcase in hand.

"Give me a break," I huffed, and looked up at him from beneath a wayward fringe of hair, "What's this to you? Some kind of sick game?"

"No," He said, and took a sip of dark red wine thoughtfully. He began to pour some for me, and then winked, "You're not of age, but I won't tell."

My cheeks burned. He kept pointing out that I was a child, too young for him, and it stung more than he knew. I had struggled all my teenage years to be older, and after Mom had died I had shirked responsibility entirely. It made me childish, I know, but having my worst enemy reminding me day after day was grating. I took a sip of wine, felt the sour twist in my mouth, and thankfully didn't cough. I hastily took a bite of spaghetti to rid my mouth of the flavors, but suddenly the sour alcohol bloomed into something deeper and richer, something lowly plummy and faintly musky. My face must have betrayed me, because I heard a low chuckle from the other side of the table.

"Corrupting your innocence is kind of amusing," He informed me, and I glared fiercely at him.

"I've had wine before," I lied icily.

"I'm sure you have. But not like this."

I sat back in my chair and folded my arms tightly again. "Why are you doing this?" I asked again, harsher this time. "I wanted to thank you, that's all. Why do this?" He leaned back as well, taking another sip of his wine as he did so.

"Because, of your family, you are the only one I find reasonably tolerable," Syndrome answered lightly. "And I want to find out why."

"You adored my dad," I retorted.

"And look where that got me," He snapped, and there was genuine chill in his voice. "Your father knew what he was doing, and I don't regret anything I inflicted on him." My temper spiked, and all images of The Plan shattered.

"You don't regret anything? Making him think you killed his family, trying to kidnap his son – the only reason you didn't hurt him more is because your plans always _failed!_" I clenched a wad of fabric and tried to keep myself under control.

"One of my plans didn't fail," He said, and his blue eyes seemed to spear straight through me. "I was acquitted, wasn't I?"

"You're telling me you _knew_ you would destroy my father?" I whispered. I was two seconds away from taking the shock knife and giving him a sharp zap when he answered.

"No. It was merely a coincidence." He took another sip of his wine, then a bite of spaghetti. "I'm not one to be caged. I don't think you are either."

Warily, I took another bite of my food. It had been a coincidence, but I didn't trust him. I didn't believe him, either. A long pause went by, and finally I said, "So that's your answer? I _fascinate_ you?"

"Well, there's the physical attractiveness as well," He said, almost as an afterthought. I sputtered on my wine, but he seemed to take no notice.

"But yeah, mostly because I don't hate you." He smirked. "I'm curious as to why."

I was still stuck on physical attractiveness.

Did _he_ have a plan? Was _he_ trying to seduce me? Were we both trying to pull revenge on each other by seducing each other? I was more confused than ever.

If he was trying to seduce me, should I let him?

"Back up," I said slowly, "Did you just call me physically attractive?"

Syndrome thought for a moment. "Yes, I did."

"_Why?_"

"Because you are," He said simply, and then smirked at me. "What's the matter? You've never been told you're beautiful before?"

"Of course I have," I snapped, "But that doesn't mean I believe them."

He nodded, that maddening sneer still on his lips. "Then I'm going to have to convince you, aren't I?"

His tone of voice sent frightened chills down my spine – it felt like a threat. "I'd prefer you didn't, actually." I said, and I wondered if he could hear the fear I felt pounding in my temples.

"Suit yourself." Syndrome's smile was predatory.

My phone rang, disrupting the deer-in-the-headlights aura, and I snatched at it gratefully. It was Dash on the other line, and I tried to calm my racing heart. I couldn't tell him I had Syndrome in my kitchen, Dad would start flipping tables. I pushed my chair back and crossed the kitchen, flicking open my phone. "Dash?" I said, the relief evident in my voice. "What's the matter?"

His voice was thick and choked. I felt all the blood drain from my face.

"Jack-Jack's gone. Somebody took him."


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

I struggled vainly against Syndrome, barely able to think straight; he had me pinned roughly against the wall, trapped between himself and a corner, and the weapon I had smuggled into the kitchen lay uselessly ten feet away. It seemed as though every time I met him, it ended up with me trying to kill him and something preventing me from doing so. Syndrome gripped my chin harshly and jerked it upwards, glaring at me. "Get something through your skull," He said menacingly, "I have not and will not _touch_ your precious baby brother. How many times do I have to tell you that, huh? Will you _listen_ for once, instead of swinging blind?"

He released me tentatively, almost as though he were afraid I would come at him again. Instead, I darted past him into the opposite room, and then into my bedroom. My mind was running in crazed, frantic circles – who else would hurt Jack-Jack? I needed to be there, I _should_ have been there from the start. If I had been there with my family, not trying to be some impressive vigilante, then maybe this wouldn't have happened. I could have stopped it, if I had been there, I was positive. Behind me, I heard Syndrome talking to Fred, and I felt a surge of hatred for the reclusive billionaire. He might have taken my brother, he probably did. To hell with The Plan, if he had touched one hair on my brother's head he was going to die, slowly and painfully.

I stuffed things in an overnight bag with no thought or process as to what I would need. Somehow I managed to remember my supersuit, which I also jammed into the small bag, and then zipped everything up. I swung the bag over my shoulder, and ran straight into Fred's narrow chest. "Let me past!" I snapped at him, but he lingered perhaps a second too long – I jabbed a bony elbow into his ribs and kept on towards the door. I heard him cry out with pain and even the sympathetic part of my mind sneered.

"I'd offer you my services," Syndrome said with dark humor, "But –"

"Go to hell!"

"-you'd say that," He continued, regardless of interruptions. "So I can only say that I hope you find him."

I got right in his face again, stood on tiptoe and glared right into his baby blue eyes. "If you've hurt him," I whispered, "I will kill you. And no, it won't be too good for you."

The door closed behind me with a slam.

* * *

My driving was terrible. It was easier to go in stealth mode on my bike than try and use a car, so I forfeited anonymity for speed. The road was slowly emptying, and one more it was just me and the double yellow line, but this time I wasn't constrained by the rules of the road. Anything in my path got avoided – I couldn't have anyone in front of me for long. Why didn't I go with the boys? Why did I have to stay here on some crazed crusade? Revenge wasn't the answer, staying with my family and trying to heal was. My cheeks were wet as I surged down highways and back roads, and my belly hadn't stopped twisting hollowly with guilt.

Dawn was cresting the horizon as I sped silently and invisibly into the sleepy little Californian town. The air was cold up here, biting and thin, and I felt the dampness on my cheeks suck the cold in. The town was small, dotted with fir trees, and had a spectacular view of the dark blue mountains which surrounded them. The Parr residence was a secluded A frame house in the woods, and I didn't even bother knocking. I kicked the kickstand down and took the flagstone stairs two at a time, and threw open the door. There were two detectives standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room, and one of them reached for his hip holster when I made my noisy entrance. My father was nowhere to be seen, but Dash was pacing restlessly in circles, and I could tell he'd been crying just as hard as I had been.

"Violet!" His youthful voice was so raw with unsuppressed emotion that I felt my knees buckle slightly. He rammed into me, squeezing me tightly for a hug, and I dropped my nose to his thick wavy blonde hair, inhaling the familiar scent of Dash. I was shaking worse than ever, and I felt as though I could fly to pieces at any moment.

"Dash, what happened?" I asked, hugging him hard.

"Who is this?" One of the detectives asked, a grizzled older man who reminded me of the men who ordered whiskey at The Egg and I.

"This is my sister, Violet," Dash told the detectives, sniffling as he pulled away. He had gotten taller and thicker since I last saw him, and he was filling out to be a sturdy young man. "She's…she lives in Retroville."

"I came as soon as I heard," I mumbled, and then looked at the detectives. "Do you have any idea who would want to take an innocent seven year old?" I demanded, and I knew how accusatory my voice sounded.

"We're still following several leads," The other detective responded, clicking a pen and looking at me suspiciously.

"Which means you have no idea," I snapped at him. Evidently they were used to frazzled women insulting them, because neither of them showed any emotion.

"You said he was a super, ma'am?" The younger detective said. He was blonde and reminded me of an older Dash. "Why weren't his powers on record?"

"My mother…" I paused, and exchanged a glance with Dash. Our superhero identities were our most powerful weapons. "My mother was a superhero. She didn't believe in earmarking superheroes like rodents."

"And her name was?" The grayer detective asked.

"Helen Parr, but the tabloids knew her as Elastigirl." I replied flatly. The older detective looked at me sharply, and I saw the flare of recognition in his eyes.

"And are any of you currently superheroes?" The younger detective wanted to know.

"How does any of this have to do with finding my brother?" Dash asked, his fluctuating voice shrill and boyish for once.

The detectives looked at one another slowly, and then the blonde detective said, "There's been a recent outbreak in super-snatching," He said slowly, "Kids who exhibit superpowers are disappearing at an increased rate."

I gripped Dash's hand hard enough to drive the blood from both our hands.

"You think somebody took him because he was a super?" I asked, and my throat felt tight. "Do you have any idea who's behind it?"

"We can't discuss anything further at this time," The older detective said firmly. "Although we would like to bring you down to the station to answer a few questions about your powers."

My heart thumped hard – all they would have to do is cross reference our powers with known superheroes, and we would be revealed. Dash squeezed my hand again, a warning.

"Where's Dad?" I asked, turning away from the detectives. Anything to get their minds off asking questions about superpowers. Dash paled visibly and looked up at me with big, worried blue eyes.

"He's already down at the station, Vi. He…" He broke off, looked away, and then summed up his insurmountable courage. "He punched one of the cops. Dad tried to go out and find Jack-Jack, but they had to stop him, and…it wasn't pretty."

My father's physical strength was incredible, and I could only imagine what a single punch could do to a man. "You mean they arrested him?" I asked, my voice tinny, "Like a criminal?"

"Please, ma'am, we need to go down to the station," The detective said quietly. "Come with us."

If I hadn't swiveled just then with the intention of raging at them, we would all have been dead. As it was, I only just heard the tiny beeping noise coming from my pocket. It was digital, regular, and sounded like a small alarm clock in my pocket. All of us turned towards my coat, and I shoved a hand into my front pocket, wondering what it was.

A small black device, no larger than a matchbook, glared balefully up at me with blue numbers ticking down. _Eight, seven, six…_

I knew what it was. The only question was, how did it end up in my pocket?

"Dash, _run!_" I screamed, and threw the bomb as hard as I could.

A shield blossomed around us just in time as the house was shaken to the foundation, orange and red crashing through the front of the house. Something huge rocked me backwards, smashing me against the wall hard and making my shield flicker out. Something fell from the ceiling onto the small of my back – was it plaster? A roof beam? The smoke was instantly thick and I couldn't see anything, although someone was grabbing my hair. Was it Dash? Was he safe? Where was Dash?

I was dazed and stupid, but I felt the hot flames lick through my coat in no time, and the heat began scorching the skin beneath it. I struggled free of whatever had fallen on me, feeling the recently cracked rib grind in protest, and someone yanked me away from the fire. I felt cool air, and then even cooler grass, and it felt good on my burned forearms as someone threw me onto the ground. White splashes danced in my vision, and I blinked hard, making the flashes go crazy.

The house was burning.

Dash was beside me, and I coughed hoarsely. The detectives were nowhere to be seen. Then, stumbling out of the smoking doorway, there was the younger detective, dragging his partner behind him. The house continued to smolder, although the worst of the flames seemed to be dying away. I leaned against a fir tree and tried to catch my breath – I looked down at my torso and groaned aloud. There was a knuckle of bone threatening to rupture from the skin – I could see it poking through my shirt. Whatever Syndrome had put on my rib, it had cracked, leaving my poor bones to break once more.

My ears popped, and I heard Dash sobbing my name. "Violet? _Violet!_ Please, Violet, look at me!"

Something copper slicked my lips, and I tasted blood as I tried to stand. "What happened?" I rasped, shielding my eyes with a burned arm as I tried to escape the searing heat from the house.

"You brought a bomb, that's what happened," The young detective snarled from a few feet away. The gray-haired man was talking into a handheld radio, and he looked slightly better for wear. The blonde had a pair of handcuffs in his hand. "Stand up, please, and put your hands behind your back," He ordered.

"What?" Dash shouted. "You're arresting my sister?"

I stared at him, and I felt the blood drain from my face. "I didn't know that was in my pocket," I mumbled. "I didn't. It wasn't me."

The world was swirling around me, and I heard sirens wailing in the distance. Dash was screaming something, but over everything, I heard the malicious crackle of the burning house, heard the traitorous thump of my heart, and knew that I was alive.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. If you use your superpowers to resist this arrest you are subject to prosecution…"

The handcuffs clicked around my wrists, and I got a glimpse of my life as a villain.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

They didn't shove, or push, or snarl threats, or deny me a lawyer. The police force here was very polite, despite the glittering, cinched handcuffs which bit into my wrists. A paramedic had strapped my wrists tightly, but without the odd plaster Syndrome had applied earlier, every breath was labored. I shifted my weight, dropping my face into my hands and try to make sense of it all. An explosive? Someone had slipped a bomb into my pocket, tried to _kill me_ and my family. I hadn't resisted the arrest, but everything was a confused tangle in my mind. The only thought I could keep returning to was _this is bigger than me_. There was something here I couldn't put my finger on, a scheme I wasn't grasping.

Syndrome. It all hooked on Syndrome.

He was the only one there, he was the one who put that explosive in my pocket. I was willing to bet that the bomb had been his design, just like the one that had killed my mother. Beneath the cheap particle board table, my hands curled into fists. I would kill him when I got all of this straightened out – he had been toying with my emotions, he had killed my mother, he had insulted me insanely…I would kill him. With my own bare hands, if I had to. I gritted my teeth and blew a strand of black hair out of my eyes, glaring at the camera in the corner of the room. When were they going to send someone in so I could get this out of the way?

My intensity of my hatred for my Syndrome had doubled so rapidly. He had tried to kill my only surviving family, my brother and possibly my father – he couldn't have known that my father wouldn't have been there. More than that, he would have taken away my only opportunity to extract the perfect revenge. I wouldn't have been able to stomach being near him if Dash and Dad had died. But he didn't kill them.

It would still be easier to throw him off a bridge than seduce him, however.

The door banged open and I jumped, even though the noise barely penetrated my hot and racing inner world.

There was a slender woman with thick chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed in the usual dark blue policeman uniform. She was very pretty, with freckles and quick dark eyes, and the nametag on her breast read Officer Jempson. Jempson took a seat opposite me and set down several manila folders which were thick with papers, and I met her eyes grudgingly, semi-curious as to what was in them. Behind her, there was an bulky, grizzled detective with a square jaw and a slight limp, wearing a plainly visible shoulder holster; unlike Jempson, he wore no nametag and didn't look friendly in the least.

"Miss Parr, you realize you've waived your Miranda rights?" Jempson asked softly.

"Yes, this is _all a mistake_ -" I began, and my voice sounded strained and warped to my own ears.

"I'd say it's a damned mistake," The grizzly bear on the other side of the table barked. "It was a pretty goddamned big mistake to bring an explosive into a crime scene. It was a big mistake, missy, and you're in a big pile of shit, aren't you?"

I gawped at him for a moment, jarred from my polite, sanitized treatment from the rest of the police force. "I didn't know the bomb was in my pocket!" I snapped back, and I felt my jaw lock. "Someone must have put it in my pocket!"

"Oh, of course, the mysterious third party," The detective chuckled low in his throat, and his laugh sounded like too much secondhand smoke. "Tell me, Miss Parr, who was this mysterious bomber?"

"Buddy Lionel Pine," I said without hesitation. "He's the owner of PineCorp, and a failed supervillain."

"Really? He wouldn't look like this man, would he?" The detective opened one of Jempson's manila folders and tossed a grainy black and white photograph onto the table in front of me. It was of Syndrome, wearing exactly what he had worn when he broke into my apartment yesterday. Fred was behind him, seemingly playing with his cufflink, and the time on the photograph dated it last night just before eight. Last night? How could so much have happened in so little time?

"That's him!" I stabbed the photo with my finger. "That's him, I was with him a few minutes before I heard about my brother, and you have to arrest him!"

"What was he doing in your apartment, Miss Parr?" The detective wanted to know.

I sat back and tried to hug my ribcage, but the cuffs prevented me from doing so. "He wanted to take me out to dinner. I was working late that day, and I didn't feel like going out with anyone afterwards." I muttered, and shook my hair out of my eyes. "I didn't actually agree to go with him, anyway."

"How long would you say you spent with Mr. Pine?" He asked gruffly, and I ground my teeth together.

"Look, why are you bothering with all this? My baby brother is seven years old, he's _alone_, and he's _scared_ and you're wasting your time with _me_?" I asked, my voice rising shrilly towards the end of my question.

"Every effort is being made to find your brother," Jempson spoke up in that same soft voice. "Just try to relax, and answer Agent Dillon's question."

I exhaled sharply and looked away. "Thirty minutes, maybe less. I was tired, and didn't really feel like talking to anyone."

"Really? Because here's your car, Miss Parr, and it didn't leave this spot until nine twenty five, indicating you spent at least an hour and a half with Mr. Pine. Do you wish to _revise_ that statement?" He asked, sliding another gritty photograph on the table. I stared at it, and then shook my head vehemently. Of course my car would still be there, I used my scooter when I was Invisigirl; it was quicker.

"I…This is a mistake," I stuttered. "I didn't use my car to get to work, I used my scooter!"

"There's no scooter licensed in your name," Jempson said quietly, looking up at me from beneath a fringe of brown hair. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…Oh, come on," I was close to tears, and the urge to slam my fists on the table mounted. "I…I used my scooter. It's not licensed, a friend designed it for me, and I try to keep it hidden because it's expensive. I took it to work that day, and I parked it out back."

"How convenient," Agent Dillon sneered, "Since there's no cameras in the back alley. Why did you take that so-called 'expensive' scooter to work that day, Miss Parr?"

I couldn't tell. I couldn't tell them my identity. My identity was my most powerful tool, my mother had said so. She told me when I was thirteen. I bit my lower lip so deeply I left two dark indents on the flesh, and then squeezed the arms of the chair I was sitting on. "I can't say," I said in a rush. "I can't, so please don't ask me."

"All right," Jempson said, and she shared a look with Agent Dillon. "Miss Parr, there's no footage of you entering your apartment. How exactly did you get into the building?" I was invisible when I entered the apartment building, how could I have been so stupid? My scooter was parked out back in my secret garage with the rest of my weapons, and I had snuck into my apartment because I was still wearing my supersuit. I couldn't tell them the truth without incriminating myself.

"Okay," I gasped, close to jerky tears. "I could have been…mistaken about how long I spent with Synd-Buddy."

"So you agree that you spent an hour and a half with Buddy Pine?" Dillon asked sharply.

_Liar, liar, pants on fire. Good little girls shouldn't tell tall tales._

"Yes." I shut my mind off.

"So what did you do during that time?"

"I…we had dinner."

"And who was this man?" He asked, tapping the half-image of Fred.

"Fred. Buddy's…butler, I think. I don't know him, I don't know. L-look, this is all a mistake!" I pleaded, and my voice began to rasp with suppressed tears.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Buddy Pine?" Agent Dillon asked lightly. "Are you dating, sleeping together…?"

"_No!_ No, nothing like that! I would _never_ sleep with him!" I snarled.

"Okay, okay," Agent Dillon chuckled, looking at me condescendingly. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much, eh Jempson?"

Jempson had the dignity to give him a dirty look.

"I would never! He killed my mother!" My voice broke into a ragged scream. "He _killed my mother!_"

"So why did you agree to go on a date with him?" He growled.

"I didn't agree!"

"Why did you have dinner with him?"

"I – I didn't!"

"You just said a moment ago you did!"

"I mean, I didn't _have dinner_, it wasn't a date or anything!"

"What's the matter, Miss Parr, too many lies? Can you keep track of them all?"

_Mother knows best. Don't disrespect Mommy. Your identity is your best weapon._

"I'm not lying to you!"

"Really? So how do you explain all of these holes? Think quick, Vi, make up another lie!"

I brought my hands smashing down on the table, and all of my pent up rage exploded from my skin in a convulsive sonic blast – table, detective, and police officer went flying against the wall. The shield around me was thick, such a dark purple it was almost black, but I couldn't see anything through my blurred tears. _"Don't!"_ I shrieked, "Call me _Vi!_"

I threw a shield against the wall – plaster showered from the ceiling, something wooden cracked, and a ceiling tile fell. The door behind me blew open, and there were people surrounding me, warily aiming weapons at the bubble I had thrown around myself. I was shaking so badly I could hear my teeth clicking together, and through blinding tears I saw that Agent Dillon was propping himself on one elbow, wiping blood away from his mouth and staring at me with a stricken expression.

"Violet! Violet look at me!"

It was Jempson, and she was the only person there not holding a gun. My wild eyes caught her gaze and held it.

"Violet, it's all right. Calm down. We're not going to hurt you."

_"Violet, I need you to put a shield around this plane!"_

I twitched violently with the urge to throw something at Agent Dillon – a shield, a wall, a building. I could. I felt powerful, crazed with memories.

_"Violet! Put a shield around us_ now!_"_

"Violet, please, look at me!" Jempson was pleading now, and still she hadn't drawn her gun. Surrounding me, the police officers were gradually lowering their weapons.

Everything pulsed in time. I felt everyone's heartbeat synch up, the walls shook with the force of my shield. Everything was one huge rhythm. The pounding was immense.

The shield around me fell.

There were people on me before I even hit the floor – something twisting around my wrists and elbows, pinning me to the floor, some kind of safety coat. I knew what it was through my memory-steeped haze; it was a shock coat, something law enforcement used to keep supervillains trapped without fear of their powers. My wrists were belted to the small of my back, and a thick belt cinched my upper arms together. My teeth were pried open, and something was forced down my throat – a pill of some kind. I gagged, but it dissolved on my tongue leaving a sharp, bitter residue. Someone smoothed my hair away from my forehead, and I saw Jempson's quick dark eyes evaluating me.

"Wait," She called over the hubbub, and things gradually stilled. "Keep her here. We have a few more questions."

Someone righted the table, and deposited me in a chair. Dazed and still spinning with flashbacks, I twitched several more times, and then gradually stilled. My heartbeat slowed, and the shakes stopped.

"You're a superhero," Agent Dillon said, looking at me without smugness or condescension for the first time.

A sob tore from my throat. "Invisigirl."

"That would explain why your powers aren't on record," Agent Dillon said quietly, leaning against the wall. "So, Invisigirl, why were you talking with Buddy Pine that night?"

I let the tears streak down my cheeks, and my head fell back down though the shock coat pulled painfully. "I was going to destroy him," I whispered to the floor. "He killed my mother, and I wanted to see justice done."

"Now, why don't I believe that?" Agent Dillon said bluntly, his voice a deep growl, "Maybe because you've lied to us in the past? No, I think you met up with Buddy to plan something. I think you didn't want to be Invisigirl any longer, I think you wanted to throw your lot in with the other side."

I struggled against the shock coat, staring at him with huge eyes, frozen with horror. "No," I breathed.

"No? So why did you partner up with him?" He snapped. "Invisigirl's new partner is somebody everyone knows. Buddy Pine, alias Syndrome. The man you supposedly hate. But you seemed to be working pretty well together a few days ago, right?"

"No!"

"And he even carried you away to goodness knows where, and then the next thing we know, you're having dinner with him!"

"_No, it's not like that!_"

"Who are you, Violet, Invisigirl, or White Lightning? You can't be all three!"

"Yes, yes I can!" It was a scream, a declaration, a triumph, a loss, a tragedy. "Yes I can! I can be all of them, because _all of them lost my mother_!"

"So that's what this is about? Slipping a bomb in your pocket, hoping to take down the rest of your family and yourself with it?"

"No!"

"It must have been difficult to live without your mother, didn't you ever consider it? And it would be cruel to leave your father and brother behind, wouldn't it?"

"_You have to listen to me, this is a mistake!_"

"You bet this is a mistake," Agent Dillon sneered. "We're done here."

Just before the door slammed, I heard his disgusted tone. "Superheroes. There's a reason we did away with 'em."

I let myself crumple inwards.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

I lay on the small, itchy cot trying hard not to scream. I could feel the suppressed noise building in my ribcage, rising and falling like the tide, and I bit deeply into the bunched up blanket in order to keep the ebb. The holding cell was small and narrow, with an ugly yellow shade slapped on the cinderblock walls, and the bottom bunk bed had a thin mattress with an itchy blanket on it. I was curled on this bottom bunk, immobile thanks to the shock coat which kept my arms numbingly still, and also due to my strapped ribs. There was little I could do without pain, and I couldn't even think without feeling the urge to scream my frustration.

So I just cried.

The tears didn't seem to have any meaning to me anymore – the had ceased to bleed me dry of pain, now they were just excess moisture I couldn't wipe off my face. For a time, they had purged me of all feeling and grief, but now they just felt emotionless and cold. Like the supervillain I was becoming.

Was this what my life was going to be like? An eternity behind bars, staring vengefully out from beneath a sagging cot, waiting to strike? Obsessively planning escapes and heists, assembling a good team of supervillains, thinking nothing of murder and destruction? Not all supervillains worked alone – perhaps if I could come to peace with the other side, I could finally find a place to belong. I could be at home among other people, instead of lying continually without ever feeling welcome.

But my conscience…my conscience begged me to listen.

Being a superhero had its tolls, it had its pitfalls – but it was the Family Business. I was duty-bound by blood. Wouldn't it break my father's heart to see his wife dead, his son missing, and his daughter flipped and turned into a supervillain? Would I ever have to hate my family, curse my very existence?

No, I still loved my family. I loved my family too much to see them hurt further.

I prayed that the search parties would find Jack-Jack. Although if the other missing supers were any indication, they didn't have the slightest clue where to find him. He had simply vanished. I was positive it wouldn't be long until the FBI stepped in and took over; vanishing super children would grow to be a threat of national security. Brainwashed superheroes, an army of them, and the world would be your oyster.

There was a dull metal clang from the hallway, and I looked up instantly, hoping to see a familiar face. The shaking had stopped shortly after her interrogation with Agent Dillon and Officer Jempson, so I wasn't impaired by the unconscious jostling. The burly black guard who had locked the door was now opening it, and he had a baton looped around his wrist. I kept my eyes downcast, hoping he wouldn't see how red and puffy my eyes were, but it was useless – some of my hair was stuck to my cheeks, where my tears had dried.

"Come on, up we go," He muttered, and turned me around none-too-gently. There was a zipping sound, and the shock coat was unclasped, allowing my arms to rotate fully and I whimpered in pain, massaging my shoulders. The residue from the power-smothering coat made my skin tingle unpleasantly, and I saw a rash creeping out from beneath my sleeve.

The side effects of the coats were nasty, but luckily short lasting.

He grasped my shoulder and guided me out of the jail cell and down the spotlessly clean corridor towards the barred door at the far end. I chanced a look upwards, and raised my hands to brush the hair away from my face. "What's going on?" I asked, my voice creaky and rusty from disuse and the torrent of tears.

"Someone posted bail." He said tersely, and I felt a swooping sensation in my gut, as though I had missed a stair. The bail they had posted was close to a million dollars – who had that kind of money? And especially only after an afternoon in jail?

_Syndrome_.

I gritted my teeth and felt the bluish electricity crackle around my fingertips, then quelled it with effort. If the guard noticed, he didn't show anything, but I couldn't keep my fingernails from digging into my palms. If Syndrome was here, I would kill him without a second thought – he didn't deserve a chance to explain himself. He would bail me out, of course, that would just be a continuation of his torture. I strained to see who was around the corner.

All the fight went out of me when I saw who it was.

"Dad?"

My father was a huge man, and I do mean that literally. He was built like a mountain, with big sloping shoulders tapering down to a narrower waist and thick thighs. He had put on weight since the death of my mother, which hampered his once impressive physique, and his blonde hair was almost totally white and thin on the top. But those dark blue eyes were so similar to Dash's, and so full of hurt that I broke free of the guard and ran to him. He crushed me in a hug, and the breath was driven from my body as my injured ribs exploded with pain. "I'm so sorry, I got here as quick as I could," He told me quietly, and gave the guard a stony glare. After the guard rolled his eyes and left, Dad turned back to me. "Are you all right? What's all this going around, what's with the rumors?"

"I told you not to pay attention to the papers," I tried to crack a smile but failed, and instead let my head fall on his big chest. "This is all a big mistake, Dad, I don't know who put that bomb in my pocket, I don't know what happened, I don't know who saved me, I just…"

He hugged me again, more gently this time, and then put his hands on my shoulders. "Everything will be fine," He told me, and even though the crease between his eyes told me otherwise, I chose to believe him. "We'll get everything straightened out. Now, we need to get out of here. Dash has a lead."

"How did you bail me out?" I wanted to know, and I felt smaller and safer in his presence. Not like a sticky, ignorant child, the way I felt around Syndrome – but a small, comforted infant. His long legs propelled him down the hallway, and I had to trot to keep up with him.

He looked away. "I'm not exactly retired, Vi."

He had been doing what he hated, then; posing for cameras and signing autographs, perhaps giving a speaking engagement or two. But I had been following the news, and it seemed so unlike him. "You were the last I heard," I said slowly. "Dash has been doing all the superhero work." We rounded a corner and I went back up to the desk to retrieve my belongings, my head still churning. How did Dad get the money? I signed my name reluctantly, and was given back my jacket and cell phone, which surprisingly had a missed call. I shoved it into my pocket without looking at it.

Instead of answering me, he pushed open the door. "Dash found a lead on where Jack-Jack might be," Dad said gruffly, and I stopped thinking about the inconsistencies in his words. We could catch up after JJ was safe and sound.

"What is it?" I asked, getting into the car behind him. He revved the powerful engine and took off down the street.

"The program we enrolled Jack-Jack in, the power-control after-school group. It's my fault; I thought I did all my research…" His voice broke and I thought I saw a tear fall. "The leader, he was a researcher. His medical license was revoked when he was discovered using inhumane methods on

his test subjects." Dad's big hands gripped the wheel hard, and I heard the plastic groan in protest beneath his mighty grip.

"How did you find that out?" I asked, pulling my jacket on swiftly.

"Dash," He answered with a trace of pride. "He's developed his own contacts, and an old friend of mine has a son who works for the CIA. It all trickled down from there."

"What about the other kids who were in Jack-Jack's group?" I felt useless just sitting there, twiddling my fingers, while my brother was missing.

"They're all there, and Dash already notified the police about our findings."

"So what are we going to do?"

His voice was flat and grim. "We're not going to wait for the police. I have the address."


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

We stood on the front porch, and I tried to make myself believe this was the home of the man who had kidnapped my brother. It was a cottagey little house, with morning glories twisting greenly around the porch railings and dark wooden shutters. An old ax-split fence added a little touch of rustic appeal, and even though the décor seemed quite old fashioned, the grass was magazine-cover green and everything seemed too pretty to be real. My father cracked his knuckles, and I swallowed hard; it had taken ten minutes to convince my father not to just break down the door and start shouting – delicacy was key.

A sweet chime sounded when I pressed the doorbell, and I heard a small furry dog yap excitedly as soon as I rang it. There was the noise of someone approaching the door, and then it opened to reveal a nicely dressed middle-aged man. He had dark hair parted in the middle, and watery blue eyes peered at us behind a pair of round glasses. A whiff of smoke burnt my nostrils when he pushed open the screen door. "Hey, what's up?" He smiled hurriedly, and his voice was high and reedy. There was a streak of soot on his cheek. "Can I get you guys something?"

"You're instructing a small power-control group, aren't you?" I asked, and I laid a hand on my father's elbow to remind him not to throttle the geek in front of us.

"Well, uh, yeah, but I'm kind of busy right now," He said, checking his watch. "I have something on the stove…what's the matter?"

"We have some questions," I replied, and my father barged right past the small man in front of us.

"Hey!" He called. "You can't just come into my home!"

I followed Dad and was hit with a wall of acidic smoke, and I coughed. "Yes we can," I snapped. "What is that?"

He rushed past us and went to the stove, where a big pitted, blackened pot was sputtering noxious looking purple liquid onto the surrounding countertop. The pot was plunged into the sink, which was full of ice water, and the purple liquid instantly began to turn a lighter shade of purple.

"Please, this is a very delicate experiment," He whined. "You should know better than to just come into the house of a researcher!"

The urge to seize his head and plunge it into the acid he was boiling hit me hard and I tried to control myself. Sudden emotions were common for me, but not this strong, nor this violent. "What kind of things do you research?" I asked, my voice low and there was a definite undercurrent of a threat. "Little kids, for example?"

Those big blue eyes went even bigger, and he sputtered. "Oh, hey now –"

"Enough!" My father seized the lapels of the man's cable knit sweater and slammed him effortlessly against the wall. He choked and sputtered in my father's powerful grip, and I closed my eyes briefly. The blood thundered in my temples, and I had started shaking again.

_Kill him. Kill them both._

"What happened to my brother?" I shouted, bypassing the whispering little urge in my head.

"I don't know! I swear to God I don't know! The police were already here earlier, they asked me questions, but I don't know what happened to him!"

The scientist was babbling now. "He was doing better in his power classes, he didn't have any friends really, and he kept having these hallucinations –"

"Hallucinations?" My father snarled, squeezing harder, his eyes pale blue slits. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"He begged me not to!" The instructed wheezed, scrabbling at Dad's huge hand. "He didn't want you to worry!"

"Why was he having them?" Dad was wasting no time now, and he hoisted him a little higher.

"I don't know!" He spluttered, and his face was starting to turn purple.

"Let him go, Dad!" I snapped, I threw the two of them apart with a shield. The dorky scientist collapsed to the floor, massaging his throat and coughing hoarsely. My father looked as though he could throw himself on top of the scientist at any moment, so I kept the shield around him.

I put a foot on the man's chest. "Why was he having the hallucinations?"

_Kill him. He knows too much._

"I don't know! He'd space out sometimes and he fell asleep once then woke up screaming. A lot of supers with uncontrolled powers have them, I assumed you guys knew!" He was desperate now.

"No, we didn't know," I muttered, and took my foot off his chest. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Yesterday morning," He gasped. "On the sidewalk. He was walking to school, I have to pass by there to go to work."

I pressed the heels of my hands against my temples, trying to blot out the pounding sensation and regain some control. "Dad, I need to talk to you," I said, and practically dragged him along, towing the shield behind me. "He doesn't know anything," I mumbled once we were in the next room. "We're wasting our time."

"Violet? Are you all right?" He asked, taking a step closer. The unabashed anger was slowly fading to gentle concern. "Your eyes…"

What was wrong with my eyes? I brushed it off. "I'm fine. We should go, Dad. The more time we waste, the farther Jack-Jack disappears."

He nodded. "Fine."

I rounded the corner into the next room and saw the scientist with his phone, texting something. "Hey!" I shouted. "What are you doing?"

He bared his teeth in a sinister smile. "It doesn't matter," He grinned. "Not anymore."

I threw a shield around him and sent him flying across the room, withdrawing the shield at the last second so the impact wouldn't be cushioned in any way. He screamed, and I heard a sickening, flat crunch of bone grinding. My father picked him up like a child and punched him hard in the gut, doubling the other man over and driving the breath from his body. Crimson sheeted my vision, and I snatched the phone from where he had dropped it. It didn't take me long to scroll through the recently sent texts.

_Shes here. Come qck._

"Dad! Dad, someone's coming!"

_Kill them! Kill them both!_

I ground my teeth in frustration and my father cocked his fist, ready for another swing. "Dad, someone's coming, he messaged someone, we've got to get out of here!" Dad threw the man against the wall, and this time, he did not get up. His glasses were cracked in one lens and blood was gushing from a cut above his eyebrow. I grabbed my father's arm and yanked him towards the door, where we burst out onto the pristine lawn.

Something was coming. I could hear the screech of tires on the asphalt up ahead.

"Dad! Dad, get in the car!"

We rushed in, and I took the wheel, taking an extra second to fasten my seatbelt. My father, as enraged as he was, didn't attempt to stop me for reasons I would never be able to understand. I gunned the engine, threw the car into gear, and took off as fast as I could. My booted foot had the pedal three-quarters to the floor already, and we were coming up at an intersection.

_Unfasten his seatbelt!_

"Dad, put your seatbelt on!" I barked at him, and I heard an answering click. The red light at the intersection glared balefully at me, but I charged through anyway, resulting in a near-accident and a legion of angry horns honking at me. I checked my mirror, my palms sweating; there was a black, unmarked van behind us with heavily tinted windows. Who was coming? Did they have Jack-Jack?

Some part of me knew that the answer to my question was yes.

I rode the curb bumpily for a heartbeat as I took a sharp turn, turning left at random. Where was I going? Some innate part of me was leading me someplace I didn't know, and my eye fell upon some scribbled graffiti on the side of an apartment wall. How was that familiar? I knew those red and black swirls. Where was I? I had never been in this neighborhood in my life.

Another intersection was coming up, and I knew instinctively I needed to go straight. My whole body was shaking spasmodically, and I didn't know I was humming brokenly under my breath. "Violet, what's wrong?" My father asked, panicked, and I looked at him through a curtain of odd shades and distorted textures. Everything I could see was buckling, warping, and making my head hurt even more.

"Nothing," I murmured, my voice gargled. "Nothing at all."

I needed to go straight.

_Come home. Come home, Violet._

I jerked the wheel to the left, and took a turn instead.

Something slammed into us then, another vehicle? Maybe. There was noise, terrific noise, and everything was popping into little stars. There was pain, oh God the pain was everywhere, pressing down on me like a ceiling of spikes, but I couldn't make sense of my head to find out where the pain was. I just _hurt_, and I heard the drawn-out crunch of metal grinding against metal, bone snapping against plastic, and something slashed against my wrist. A crimson stripe of blood flew through the air, solid and colorful against the backdrop of swirling black-and-white. Things flickered – someone opened a door, and I heard struggling noises. Everything pulsed.

Dad? Where had Dad gone? Time stretched, and I lolled my head to one side. Smoke stung my eyes. Everything was quiet, what had happened?

The other car was still there, I could see the hood.

Someone was pulling me out. Who? Dad? Someone else?

"Stop," I gasped. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," Snapped an unfamiliar voice, and the swirling stopped as something bit deeply into my neck.

* * *

"Wake up, Violet."

The leather restraints were cutting into my wrists and calves, and I pulled my eyes open with great difficulty. Someone was pounding a sledgehammer against my brain, I could feel it, but there was also a million other places where I hurt as well, like a swarm of angry little bees. A bright light flashed in my eyes, and I felt my pupils react unconsciously. "There we go," Continued the voice. "Good as new."

White. Everything was white. Someone was in front of me, blonde hair? No, ginger. Ginger hair and a ginger beard, big glasses – who was this? He had a tattoo on his bicep and a scar on his left hip, although neither of those could be seen because of his lab coat. How did I know those things?

"Atta girl," He murmured. "What's my name, Vi?"

"Don't call me Vi," I spat through a mouthful of cotton.

"Not quite. Try JJ, that's better. JJ. Remember me?"

He had a metropolitan lilt to his voice, New York maybe? Yes, New York, although he had been born in Hoboken. He liked egg salad sandwiches. Not JJ…

"Mr. J," I coughed.

"That's better!" He looked delighted. "Your surgery went well, really well in fact, and we're just getting ready to insert another tracker into you. Sorry for the malfunction last time, it shouldn't have happened, although though if you checked in like you should have, we could have caught it."

"What…what are you talking about?" I mumbled, wanting to massage my head. I felt oddly lighter, for some reason, and the chair I was strapped to was warm.

"Come on, you remember," He sighed. "Vi, come on, you know my name. Why are you here?"

"You hit me…with a car…"

"No, we pulled you out of the wreckage. Violet, come on. Pull yourself together. What's your name?"

"Violet…Violet Parr."

"Good. What's your superhero name?"

I had to think for a moment. "In…Invisigirl. Where's my father?"

He shook his head. "You were alone, Vi. We pulled you out of the wreckage and started wiping memories before the police arrived. You put a lot of pressure on the PR team, Violet." Mr. J answered mildly. He sighed. "We've done this before, unfortunately. There's something in these things that keeps wiping your memories, and it's getting really annoying."

There was a tiny silver disk in his hands, hardly the size of my thumbnail. "All right, the cliff notes then." He said lightly.

I began to focus, and my thoughts began to collect themselves slowly.

"You're one of our experimental subjects, a guinea pig. We're working on harnessing superpowers into a consistent energy that can be recorded, and developing new technology to combat the tides against supervillain dominance. You've been fighting crime and working yourself closer towards Buddy Pine, because he has technology we need."

I shook my head, brow furrowed. "I want to kill Buddy Pine."

He made a face. "Oh, damn, yes. Well, that would be one of the earlier commands we sent to you through this," He said, tapping the tiny disk lightly. "We thought we could get you closer to Pine if you thought you were trying to kill him."

"He killed my mother," I said slowly. "Or, at least, Bomb Voyage did."

"You remember!" He cried, studying my face. "Maybe not," Mr. J added as an afterthought. "Yes, your mother was killed by Bomb Voyage. That's why we approached you in the first place, because we were worried you would turn to the other side if you weren't channeled into a constructive outlet. Your powers were incredible, of course, and we're working on grafting even more ones onto your current capabilities."

I wondered why the shakes were gone, why this man was sitting here in front of me spouting nonsense. "You're lying."

He rubbed his temples. "Why don't you tell me everything that's happened to you. It'll save time."

"My name's Violet Parr, I live in Retroville. I fight crime under the name Invisigirl. I stayed in Retroville to avenge the death of my mother by killing Buddy Pine. I wanted to do more than kill him though, I wanted to destroy him, so I decided to seduce him to get closer to him. Before I could continue with my plan, my little brother was kidnapped, and I was tracking him down with my father when you arrived." It felt weirdly familiar, to report in a factual, clinical manner like this – honesty hadn't been a major part of my compounds the past few years, and it was bizarre to spill everything to this Mr. J fellow.

"Wrong. You live in Retroville because we sent you on a mission to get the blueprints from Buddy Pine. Your initial orders were to kill him, and then once you had made contact, to seduce him. It was supposed to be easy, but you had a malfunctioning tracker in your brain and your brain kept taking over." He laughed as though it was supposed to be funny.

"You control my thoughts?"

"Your actions. Your emotions. Your thoughts. Yes, we control every part of you. Every decision you make is made by us – that is, if your tracker transmits correctly. You got a faulty one, which resulted in quite a topsy turvy time for a while. The shakes you experience? The nausea, insomnia, lack of appetite? Side effects."

This wasn't making sense. "Why…Why would you do this to me?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Because you asked us to. You signed up, Violet, after the death of your mother. I think your original phrasing was, 'I don't like the decisions I've made in the past'."

I shook my head – none of this was sparking any memories. "I don't believe you. Let me go." There was a curious lack of shock or fear in my body; actually, a frightening lack of any emotion at all.

"I can't really do that," Mr. J said sadly. "Now stay still, I've got to put this in." He held up the little disk and smiled at me. "Say goodnight, Violet."


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

Looking back, I was never fully sure how I got out of those bonds. There was such a confused mess of images – the door banging open, a blur zipping over to Mr. J, the disk flying through the air – and I never was completely convinced that I had broken them myself. Especially since the shields I can create shouldn't be able to do that, not under normal circumstances. Then again, being tied to a chair and informed that I was some sort of robotic secret agent wasn't a normal circumstance.

All I knew was that the shield I created, mingled with desperation and terror, _hurt_. Every inch of my skin felt like it was being peeled off, and the broken bones and heavy bruising I had suffered from my rough-and-tumble week seemed to melt away beneath the sheeting pain. The bluish purple shield either sheared through my bonds, or something else cut them, but I was tumbled onto the floor in a heap within moments. Everything burned.

"Violet? Violet, please!" The blur was sobbing over me, and I struggled to focus blearily on the heart-shaped face looming ahead. Dash?

"Dash?" I croaked.

"Violet! Get up, we have to move!"

I screamed in protest as he yanked me to my feet, but he took no notice of my grinding bones and tender skin. A flare of clear pain burst into my side, and I had to sink my teeth into my lip to keep from screaming again. The disk was on the floor, and I stomped on it viciously as I went by. Something sputtered and fizzled. Mr. J was unconscious on the floor, a ribbon of red blood trickling down his lip. I felt a sting of cruel delight.

Out in the sterile white hallway, an alarm was clanging continually, grating on my ears. "This way!" Dash called, and ran to the left, leading us down yet another identical hallway.

"How did you get here? Where's Dad?" I called as I clutched my ribs and tried to keep up. My brother never slowed as he called over his shoulder to me.

"Dad's looking for Jack-Jack! I followed you guys after I looked down another lead, and saw your car accident! I pulled Dad out of the car but when I came back for you, you were gone! Dad and I followed the van here, are you okay?"

"Stop," I panted, and leaned against the wall. My breath tasted hot and bloody, and I spat weakly onto the viciously white floor. Something was tearing inside me, and I knew that if I kept moving, something irreparable would be broken. "Dash, why did I stay in Retroville?"

He came over to me, glancing around, "Violet, look, we don't have _time_-"

"Why did I stay in Retroville!" I shouted at him, and the strain on my throat was almost too much. Dash's big blue eyes were wider than usual.

"You…you said you weren't going to run from memories," He said uncertainly. "That you had a duty to the citizens of Retroville."

"I didn't…" I struggled to breathe, "I didn't mention any organization? Someone I was working for?"

"No," He said, his brow furrowing. "Why?"

"Because…because they said I was one of them. That I had a circuit in me, that I've been following their orders for months." I was desperate. "I don't know…I don't know if they're telling the truth."

Dash, for the first time in his life, was perfectly still. "They told you that?" He asked, his small face crinkled. "Is it true?"

Flashes of memories had been threatening to burst at the seams, but I couldn't let them spill out now. We still had things to do. "I don't know. They might have been…how else would I know his name?" I was talking more to myself than Dash.

My little brother had a strange expression on his face – wariness. "Violet, can you keep running?" He asked, but beneath the concern there was legitimate uncertainty.

"No," I whispered. "No, I can't. Find Dad. I'll…look for Jack-Jack."

Before he zipped off, he turned around and seized my hand in a painfully tight grip. "You're not one of them," He said, and then dashed off in a blur of motion.

I wanted so badly to believe him.

There was no time for reflection or rest; I could hear the booted heels of guards coming my way. I was in no condition to fight anything, what with my ribs still broken, my left side practically paralyzed, and my skin still shuddering from my explosive shield that shouldn't have happened. Wasn't that another proof, then, that Mr. J was telling the truth? He had told me my symptoms, and shown me that everything I had believed was a lie.

How was I going to get out of this?

As the soldiers turned the corner, I pressed myself harder against the wall. I needed something solid at my back before I launched myself into the last battle of my life, still full of questions.

The soldiers were wearing black uniforms with a white stripe across their chests, and hard helmets which almost obscured their vision. Although they cradled ominous looking guns in their arms, not one of them drew a bead on me. "Agent," One of the guards called down the hallway. "Agent V, what's your status?"

_What's my status?_

"Inoperative," I heard myself saying. "Continue your search."

_Who am I?_

"Do you require assistance?" The soldier asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Negative. I'll make it to the nearest Med Center without trouble." _Who talked like this? I never talked like this!_

"Forty Two, Ninety Three, stay with the Agent," The soldier commanded, and I saw two soldiers pull apart from the conglomerate. "Agent V, you are to report to the interrogation unit to question a prisoner as soon as you receive medical attention."

"Affirmative," I gasped, and I felt a sturdy hand slipping beneath my uninjured elbow to steady me. I couldn't straighten my other elbow far enough to link an arm around his neck, but they supported me as best they could as they walked me down the hallway. My mind buzzed with questions; if the chip was out, how did I know all of these things? Was the chip simply designed to control me? How long had I been doing things without my consent?

I heard a scream.

I stiffened in the guard's grasp, and I heard a reassuring voice say, "I know, the interrogation unit's soundproofing is wearing thin. Gets on my nerves too."

"Who…who are they interrogating?" I asked weakly. _Not Dad, please, oh God please not my family._

"Some engineer, I think," The other guard answered.

My mind thunked into place.

I pulled away from the guards and nearly fell – if I had fallen, I surely would have blacked out, because the pain I was grappling for control with was gradually overtaking my senses. But somehow I managed to reach the containment unit and fumble at the contraption which asked for a keycard swipe. "Open up!" I shouted, pounding on the door. "Open this damn door before I blow it down!"

The door hissed open, and I nearly fell inside. A woman with sleek blonde hair and a pointed chin glared at me. "Agent, this is most unconventional," She said disapprovingly. "What –"

I didn't hear her.

Shirtless, strapped to a gurney, bathed in sweat, was Buddy.

There were electrodes pasted on him, and he was shuddering spasmodically, as if controlling some greater pain. A heart monitor beeped erratically, and I saw a clear freezer made of glass, filled with water in the cooler. There were syringes laid out neatly on a metal tray.

This wasn't interrogation. This was torture.

I was at his side in an instant, and I yanked the electrodes off his chest. His blue eyes opened and met mine, and I don't know what expression he saw on my face – hate, fear, pain, panic, exhaustion, or some ghastly combination. The guards were arguing with the blonde doctor, but I barely heard their noise; I was too focused with Buddy.

Should I kill him?

The guards knew me. I knew Mr. J. I hadn't been aware my actions were being dictated, but I wasn't very surprised, now was I?

I unstrapped him from the gurney, and before I could speak, his hand shot out and circled my throat.

"You have a lot of nerve," He rasped, his pale blue eyes slits of fury, "A lot of fucking nerve."

I heard the doctor screaming in the background, and I'm sure she was shouting for backup. I pulled his fingers away from my throat hard enough to give me some breath; "Not my fault," I wheezed. "Chip...in my head…"

His brow creased, and instead of increasing the pressure, he twisted my head effortlessly to examine a spot behind my ear. There was something there I couldn't see and hadn't had time to feel, but whatever he saw, it made all the tension go out of his face. "It worked," He breathed. "It worked on someone."

Buddy loosened his hold on my throat and I pulled away from him. "Would someone explain to me," I gasped, "What _happened_?"

"There's no time," He growled, and slid off the gurney. His knees were shaky, and I saw how much he stumbled, but he was in far better shape than I was. Ruthlessly, he pushed me behind him, sending me colliding into the gurney and making stars explode in my vision, but he was shielding me from the guards were both aiming their guns at him.

"Sir, get back on the gurney." One of them ordered.

"I don't think so," Buddy grunted. "Not after what you injected in me."

I didn't know who or what to believe. What had happened? What was going on?

There was the short, sharp snap of a gun with a silencer, and then another two shots. I screamed and grabbed at Buddy's arm, horrified, not knowing if he had been shot or…

"Miss Parr, could you control yourself?" Came a clipped, familiar British voice. "Honestly, the way you've been carrying on it's enough to drive someone mad."

It was Fred.

_Fred?_

Buddy seemed just as confused as I was, and the two of us just stood there, staring at the tall, lanky butler who looked nothing like a butler now. He had a sports coat and a necktie, along with an expensive watch and a rather wide smile on his face.

"Could we conduct this somewhere more personal?" He said sweetly, in far too sugary a tone for someone who had just killed three people mere seconds ago. "Or you can deal with the guards who are coming this way."

"Fred, what's going on," Buddy demanded, and although his voice was hoarse it had the brutal snarl of a command.

"You know, for a genius, you're remarkably slow witted," Fred mentioned. "Do you honestly think I'd want to be at your beck and call for the sheer enjoyment of it? No. I wanted your designs. Your neural control chips worked splendidly, as you can see with Miss Parr," He said, and nodded towards me. Big black roses were blooming in my vision.

"Don't make this difficult," Fred said tightly, and Buddy pounced.

Fred shot him casually in the leg, and that was the last thing I saw before everything curtained with mist.

* * *

**A/N:** _Heh heh, I've kind of forgotten I put this on ! I've been updating my dA version, and forgot about this one. 3 Anyway, here's the, um, nine extra chapters I'd forgotten to put here. :D_


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

"Wake up, love, we haven't got all day."

At first, I was unsure why I wasn't restricted somehow; there were no handcuffs, restraints, ropes or chains in any fashion. And then once I opened my eyes, my entire body turned into one massive hurt. My ribs, my head, my arm, my back, and my shoulders all seemed to be infused with scalding lava, and every inch of skin felt bruised. I could open both of my eyes, but my jaw felt strangely tight and likely to crack if I tried to open it. None of this stopped me from glaring as hard as I could at the former butler standing in front of me.

Fred looked much more irritated and less playful than I had seen him, and I tried to make out his features in the darkness of the room. There were long shadows everywhere, and just enough light from a bare bulb above me to make everything seem darker and more sinister. The chain from the light swung slightly, as though it had just been pulled, and I wondered how long I had been unconscious in the dark.

"My…family," I rasped, and even my voice sounded pained. "If you've…hurt them…"

"Not in the slightest," Fred assured me, going around behind me. I tried to turn, but the too-quick action made something in my neck grind together. I gritted my teeth against the pain and forced myself to think.

He's a liar. I couldn't trust him. "Where…am I?"

"Not far from where you last where, actually," Fred answered lightly, coming back to face me with a syringe in his hands. "Now, you sit still, this might pinch a little." He came towards me with the syringe.

It took all of my effort to reach up and grab his wrist, squeezing the narrow bones with every ounce of might in my frame. The clenching motion send tremors of pain up my arm and into my injured shoulder, but I kept my voice still as I snarled hoarsely, "Don't you come near me with that thing!"

His mouth twisted as though he tasted something unpleasant, and chuckled stiffly. "Don't be silly. This will help you make sense of everything. I imagine there are quite a lot of holes in your memory these past few months, isn't there? All of your secret agent work…Must be challenging, trying to cope with all that." His dark eyes were swift and satisfied.

I gripped his wrist harder and twisted the skin slightly, positioning the syringe away from me; I kicked out at him and stood up, ignoring the aches in my body. Fred jumped back, pulling away from me, and set the syringe down. He eyed me warily, as though he were surprised I had the strength to get up, but my bold move was costing me – there was hazy black at the corners of my vision again.

"What do you know about my work?" I asked guardedly, unsure whether or not to believe his lies.

"Everything. How you joined, how you left, and how you fell in love with the man you were supposed to be getting secrets from. I had to step in and do your dirty work, love. And you were a shitty double agent, by the way."

I stared at him. "Wh…what?"

"You were a shitty double agent," He repeated with a sigh. "The syringe will…explain things. It's a memory serum that Mr. Pine invented, it should undo most of the effects of the memory wipe."

Syndrome!

"Where is he?" I shouted, appalled that I hadn't thought of him sooner. "Where's Syndrome?"

Fred's smile was thin-lipped and downright evil. "He's elsewhere. Getting a far worse treatment than you are, I assure you."

"Give him to me," I growled. "He's mine."

"He's nothing of the kind," Fred said with a laugh. "Now, you have a choice, Miss Parr. Either sit down and let me administer this to you so you can make sense of everything, or attack me. If you choose the latter I guarantee I will break your arm off and beat you unconscious with it. Now sit down, please."

His voice was entirely polite and clipped, but I sensed the threat beneath his tone. My adrenaline was spiking, washing out some of the pain. "No," I snapped. "Tell me where he is."

"Tell you what," Fred said, "Sit down in the chair, administer this serum to yourself, and I'll tell you after we can speak like equals. Otherwise it won't make sense."

Should I trust him?

Did I know him at all?

The light chain above me stopped swinging as I sat down, and I never took my eyes off of Fred. He handed me the syringe with aplomb, and I located a vein with some difficulty. I pushed hard, squeezing every last amber drop into my arm, and shuddered powerfully as my whole head began to shudder. I let the syringe clatter to the floor as I fell forward, trying to block all of my senses at once – there were pulses in quick succession, making everything too loud, too bright, too big, all at once. I felt my pupils dilate, and images flickered through my mind like a wind in leaves.___  
_

_____- arm around me, nuzzled next to him, breathing his scent –  
_

_____- roaring, explosions, gunfire, cars –  
_

_____- kissing him hard, against the wall –_  


Was Fred tying my hands?___  
_

_____-"Are you sure you want to do this, Violet?" His hand around mine. Big blue eyes, so soft, so sweet, fringed with pale lashes. He wouldn't hurt me, and I needed him. -  
_

_____- "S-stop!"  
_

_____"What's wrong with you?"  
_

_____"I can't do this. I love you."  
_

_____"I love you too, sweetheart, what's the –"  
_

_____"I'm here to kill you." -_  


The pain ripped me open again as my wrists were bound together, but everything was still flashing, the memories kicking into place with forcible snaps.___  
_

_____-bones breaking, flat sounds –  
_

_____"Miss Parr, you have to understand, this mission is of the most delicate kind. Your complete will is needed, as we need to override the most basic of your human emotions. Please don't take this as a personal attack."  
_

_____"I don't like the decisions I've made in my life, Mr. J. I'd be happy to accept this mission."  
_

_____A salute. "Then God keep you safe, Miss Parr." –  
_

_____- filing cabinet on the floor, papers floating in the air. My screams hurt my chest, everything is one giant throb. "You didn't say this would happen!"  
_

_____Mr. J ducked behind the desk. "We're going to fix it, Violet! You're not going to even remember what happened!"  
_

_____"Don't you dare touch my memories! I want to withdraw! I want to withdraw from this mission!"  
_

_____His eyes, big, hopeless. "That's not an option, Vi." –  
_

_____-"We can give you both a happy ending, Miss Parr."  
_

_____I felt the hope in my chest again. "How?"  
_

_____"Wiping your memories. Putting you back to square zero. Maybe helping you along the way with a few commands. It won't be easy, but you did it once, so the connection will still be there. You just won't know why."  
_

_____"This sounds too good."  
_

_____"That's because it is." He slid the blueprints across the table. "We need this."  
_

_____"What is it?"  
_

_____"A ray that can strip a human DNA of superhero powers and infuse it into another DNA strand. It's still in the developmental stages. Once we have it, you two will have your memories wiped and we'll set you up in a romantic situation." -_  


I tried hard to stop the flow of images, but everything was making sense and yet not making sense in some twisted bizarre way. When I finally began to breathe and my heartbeat began to slow, I took in the image of Fred leaning against the wall, examining me with a sneer. "Finished yet?" He asked.

I swallowed. "N-no."

"Then let me explain. You signed up for a superhero program, something that could prevent supervillains from taking over the world. It was still in the early stages, so they needed new superheroes to help them along, and you were a prime candidate. The whole operation was being funded by PineCorp, and he had invented a ray gun to tear apart the human DNA strand and piece it back together, only this time, with grafted superpowers."

Fred paced back and forth very slowly as he said this, as though he were explaining something to a very slow child. "You were sent out to take the blueprints for the DNA Ray Gun, because the initial experiments went horribly wrong and they suspected Buddy Pine of deliberately giving them a malfunctioning weapon."

He checked his nails, buffing them slightly against his vest. I sat there, everything numb. The pain was creeping back as my adrenaline drained away.

"So you were sent out to steal the blueprints – once you had them, they discovered that the weapon had been tampered with, although not thanks to Mr. Pine. They didn't know that, however, so you were sent out to kill him. But one thing led to another, and instead of murdering him, you two fell in love."

He smirked, so cruel and full of malice that I felt a flicker of hatred – but I still couldn't move. I was bound securely to the chair I had unwittingly sat down in, and I was entranced by the words coming from his mouth.

The frightening thing was, it was all making sense. I had a memory to go with everything he said.

The terrifying thing was just how deeply Buddy and I had been in love. I stirred the memories and swallowed hard, remembering nuances of things I had barely become acquainted with.___  
_

___-__Skin. Sweat. Soft noises.  
_

_____His teeth on my shoulder, nipping lightly, soothing the skin.  
_

_____"Look at me."  
_

_____Beautiful blue eyes, so gorgeous. I was drowning, he was killing me, but we were in it together.  
_

_____My fingers, tangled in his hair, pulling him down to kiss me, because I needed to feel completely surrounded by him.  
_

_____His nails, digging into my hips._  


I blinked, my whole body trembling.

Fred smiled at me as though he knew exactly what I was thinking of. "Your faulty chip kept you away from the home base, so they couldn't change the device in your head. All you could do was operate under commands thanks to a faulty wiring device. That was when we approached you and offered you a chance – steal the ray gun, and we could give you a happy ending with your boyfriend."

I was horrified with myself, disgusted even as I knew he was telling the truth. Selling my soul, trading the lives of almost every single superhero for Buddy? For him?  
And a tiny cool blue flame inside me whispered, Yes. Yes, you would do anything for him. It's that kind of love. It's desperation and sacrifice, it's pain and misery, it's full of horrible things and it's badly taped together, but it's that kind of love.

"Where is he." I asked, my voice a cracked whisper.

"You know, you're remarkably emotion-driven," Fred said thoughtfully. He checked his watch. "You failed in your mission, Violet. No thanks to your wiring chip, of course, but still. By now, I'm fairly sure we've extracted the information from Mr. Pine, and since you've failed, you won't be seeing him again. You'll be deposited outside the front doors of the nearest hospital in due time."

"My family!" I screamed, writhing at the bonds. They couldn't do this! "Where's my family?!"

"Oh, yes, well, Jack-Jack is being experimented on," Fred said casually. "He was the first ray-gun test, the one that went wrong. We'll finish him off and see if the splices take, and if they do, he'll be released. Of course, he won't have any superpowers, but he should be fine, other than some mild schizophrenia, claustrophobia, and a severe headache. Your father…we have special plans for him. And your brother."

He gestured to the guards. "Take her away."

* * *

___**A/N:** __ I love you guys. ^^_


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fifteen**

* * *

There's a lot of things I can't explain. There's a lot of things I don't know, especially after everything that happened. But I do know this – with all of my injuries building up, I shouldn't have been able to move. I should have been unconscious on the floor, or at least unresisting to guards; after all, I had a fractured disc, two cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and two broken toes. And I know I should have just lain there like a sack of potatoes when Fred smugly handed me off to two uniformed guards.

But I didn't.

I fought back.

Hard.

I had kicked one in the solar plexus before he even knew what had happened, and then brought the heel of my hand smashing into his jaw as his fingers touched his weapon. The second one was harder, but a quick chop between the legs dropped him quickly, and I took a second to kick his nose viciously. He screamed, grabbing his spurting nose, and I knew he was temporarily blinded. The other guard was wheezily coughing up a wad of blood, and I turned my attention to Fred. My hair hung in my eyes, and I felt a wall of adrenaline solidify in my breast. I felt like an animal.

"Where are they," I snarled out between gritted teeth.

Fred looked as though he was impressed in spite of himself, and I caught his momentary indecision. There was a shield around him before he could blink, and I threw him hard against the wall – I retracted the shield at the last second, letting the full impact of the wall meet him face-first. There was a hideous scream as he dropped like a stone, and I kicked his ribcage viciously as I approached him.

He grabbed my ankle and twisted hard, upending me; I struck out with my other leg and punched his busted nose hard. The noise he made wasn't human, but I felt the feel recesses of pain flaring as I scrambled to my feet. Fred was on his knees, and I drove me knee into his jaw with a staccato movement, kicking him backwards at the same time. Before he landed, there was another shield around him, and I smashed him against the ceiling hard, maximizing the drop.

"Tell me where they are!" I barked. "Now!"

His teeth were bloody, but he bared them in a cocky smile nonetheless. "You'll – have to do better – than that, Miss Parr," He gasped.

A grunt tore from between my lips as I sent him flying again, this time cracking him against both walls. I let him fall, and he struggled drunkenly to his hands and knees, arching his back as he coughed up a mixture of bile and blood. He touched his fingers to his lips as though surprised at the redness he saw. "Impressed yet?" I spat.

"In spite of myself," He coughed weakly.

If I hurt him any further, he'd pass out, and be of no use to me. I glared at him beneath a curtain of hair. "Tell me where my family is. Now."

He rolled over on his side and looked up at the ceiling, still struggling vainly to find breath. I stepped closer to him warily, watching for his fast hands, and put a hand on his throat. Our eyes met.

"Where are they."

His eyes were unrelenting. I started to apply pressure, almost like a gas pedal. His death would be a minor setback – I could always search the place manually.  
And he owed me, for stealing my memories. I locked my knee, and prepared to break his neck.

"Violet!"

It was my father.

He looked worse than I did – his hair was matted with blood, one eye was blackened, his lip was split, and he was holding one arm across his chest. He was favoring his right side drastically, and yet he still had that fierce, indomitable glow in his eyes. The old warrior in him was back on the surface, and I could tell he was practically glowing with adrenaline. He probably felt more alive now than he had all year. "Violet, get out of here! I'll find the boys, go and get help!"

I took my foot off Fred's throat and backed away, breathing hard. "No! Dad, we're doing this together!"

"I won't risk you again, Violet!"

"I'm not splitting up this family any further! We're doing it together, Dad!"

There wasn't much time to argue. He looked around frantically, as if there had to be some other option hanging in space, but he nodded after a moment and sighed. "All right, come on! I've already checked the east wing, we have to go down here." He had fought through an entire wing by himself?

As we ran down the corridor, I heard Fred laughing weakly, his throat full of blood. We worked efficiently together, bulling our way down the hallways and prying open doors. On the doors with palm scanners, we had to drag an unconscious guard down the hall and press him against the scanner as he struggled. All we found were scientists, some frightening looking weapons, and a torture chamber. I shuddered as memories barraged their way past the fragile borders of reasoning my brain had set up.

I had been in that room. Roped to a board, turned upside-down in that chlorine-laced pool over there. That had been me, strapped to a gurney, deprived of sleep for nearly four days, being fed a toxic cocktail of ingredients. All gearing me up for the perfect mission. I had been the test subject, so everything had been done on me first. If it didn't work on me, they tried something else.

How had I survived? I would need to take a trip down memory lane later. There were still people to find.

* * *

I don't know how long it was later when we heard him. Maybe a minute? Three? It couldn't have been long, although time had started to blur together when the alarms started sounding. Time and noise started bleeding together, and the pain was creeping back into my body, making me feel sluggish. But he came around the corner, his powerful body still shaking a little, those beautiful baby blue eyes blackened, one of them shut tightly. And I knew he was in pain – his tolerance wasn't nearly as high as my fathers, and I didn't even know how I was still standing. My fear of physical pain had shrank away into a tiny ball in the back of my mind when my memories were regained, and I wondered how I had ever been afraid of it. Pain wasn't something to be shunned, it was to be welcomed. Pain made you stronger.

My father saw Buddy, and went berserk.

"You!" He roared, and if I hadn't reached Buddy first I don't know what might have happened. Dad would have killed him, probably.

I don't know what I expected to do when I got to him. Kill him? Slap him? Tell him to run? But I looked up at those beautiful blue eyes, his sweat-drenched, bare chest still heaving from pain and exhaustion, and I flashed on several memories at once, flickering in my mind like dying candles. I didn't know what I expected him to do either – did he even have his memory back? Did he know who I was? Had they wiped his memory entirely? Did he think I was still an enemy? I half expected him to try and kill me. It might have been better if he had.

Because I certainly didn't expect him to kiss me.

It wasn't a soft kiss, either – it was hard, and it hurt, because it was full of desperation and for the first time I realize we all might die here. He gripped my cheek hard enough to leave an imprint of his hand, and pulled back. "They took your memories too?" He demanded hoarsely, and I drew away from him almost immediately, frightened for myself, for my father, for everyone. Buddy had his memory back.

But nowhere in my memories do I ever recall telling my father that I had fallen in love with Buddy Pine, the man who had tried to kill us.

I turned around, reaching for my dad, trying to tell him what was going on, what had happened - Buddy's hand was on my shoulder, and he was telling me something, but my ears were closed. Because all I could see was the raw pain and betrayal in my father's eyes, on my father's face. He thought I was one of them, that I was an enemy, that his wife had died and his own daughter had turned against him. I saw it all, and I could have sobbed aloud, because I couldn't choose between Buddy and my father. Not now, not ever. I couldn't pick between the man who had raised me and loved me, and the man who had made me.

That was asking too much.

"Dad –" I choked out, but I got no further.

Because the ceiling collapsed between us, bringing with it my baby brother, Jack-Jack, with an army of very pissed off super children.

He had grown so much since I last saw him – he was no longer the serious, chubby child I remembered. He was taller and lankier, with a thin face and wide blue eyes, and sandy blonde hair tousled on his head. Behind him were at least fifteen children of varying ages; I saw a little girl who couldn't be more than three years old, and a young boy who could have been twelve. There were flames and sparks and electrical spheres, there were weapons and war cries and bruises and cuts, and I was horrified to see that my brother Jack-Jack had scars circling his arms, fresh pink slices barely healed. He was scowling at me, and although he obviously recognized me, there was not much mercy in his eyes.

"Are you with us, or against us?" A tiny girl shrieked, a ball of flame popping to her fist.

"I'm Violet Parr," I said, but my eyes never left my father. He wasn't looking at me, but he was staring at Buddy. The two of them were glaring at each other, as though daring the other to back away from their loved one. Both men were the two most stubborn people I knew. "Jack-Jack, are you okay? Where's Dash?"

"He went for help," Jack-Jack said finally, and I found his voice has grown deeper. He wasn't looking at me. "Come on, we need to move!" He shouted to his followers, and continued down the hallway. I could tell they weren't so much as looking for an exit as they were seeking revenge, since some of them had streaked blood on their cheeks like war paint and the cries they whooped sounded positively demonic. I wondered how many people they had killed, and what they had gone through.

"You took her from me," I heard my father say, and turned just in time to see him punch Buddy hard in the jaw.

He rocked back on his heels, and I saw that Buddy's lip was split in two places. "She came of her own free will, old man," He muttered, and the words sounded loose and strange from his numb mouth. Buddy glared ferociously at my father. "Let her go."

"Stop it!" I snapped, and my voice sounded high and tinny to my ears. Black was eating at the edges of my vision again, and I knew I couldn't last much longer before the adrenaline wore off completely and I was at the mercy of my own pain. "Dad, please, let me explain –"

"No," He said flatly, and the world tore itself apart when he glared at me with such hate. "You two are suited for one another."

I wanted everything to end, I wanted the room to dissolve, I wanted to die and scream and make him understand all at once. They couldn't ask this of me, they couldn't make me choose between them! I wasn't going to change myself to suit one of them.

"On the ground! Now! Put your hands in the air!" Shouted a voice from behind us, and I looked up behind a curtain of tears at the familiar face of Agent Dillon.  
I dropped to my knees as I felt the handcuffs click around my wrists again, and for the second time that day I wanted to die.

* * *

_____**A/N:** __*gasp* OH MY GOD. LIFE actually got in the way of me writing this chapter! Do you know what this means? It means I have a LIFE! O_O Or it means I'm a lazy bum... :/  
Seriously though, sorry for such a long wait. And this chapter isn't NEARLY as long as I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be, like, 5k words, with ample time given to SuperBabyHorde and TehDramaticKees and MahDadHatezMeh scenes, but yeah, again, life. I have to go do LIFE things now. _


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